Brief Briefings
by JantoJones
Summary: A series of Man from U.N.C.L.E. ficlets which are longer than a drabble, but with fewer than 800 words.
1. Revenge

Head Nurse, Maisie Redfearn, was only mildly surprised by the sight which greeted her upon entering Illya Kuryakin's room. It was bound to have happened sooner or later and, although she was going to have to discipline her nurses, she couldn't help but find the situation funny. The two younger women had the decency to look ashamed of what they had done, but the face of the Russian was sporting the ghost of a smirk.

"Do you have anything to say Mr Kuryakin?"

"This is entirely my fault," he told her, with genuine contrition in his voice. "I once again took my frustration out on these ladies, who were simply doing their duty. For this I apologise, and I shall endeavour to alter my behaviour in the future."

"Apology accepted," Maisie replied, desperately trying not to smile. "Maybe now, you can understand how it feels for the nurses when _you _throw things at _them_."

She turned to Nurse Jenson and Nurse Locke.

"I know this has been coming for a long time, but you are meant to be professionals. Throwing green jello at a Section 2 agent is not a good career move, no matter how much he deserves it."


	2. Good or Bad?

The candle burned slowly, with a **pale orange** flame, in the still desert air. For THRUSH operative, Marcus Wells, the wax was melting far too quickly for his liking. From what he could estimate, he had about twenty minutes before the dynamite at his feet exploded. He'd been tied to a fence-post, with the dynamite taped to his ankles. The fuse ran from his feet to the base of the candle, where it was threaded through to meet the wick. A slight breeze blew across the flame, causing it to sputter but, despite Wells' rising hopes, the candle continued to burn.

"I thought you were meant to be one of the good guys," he yelled to the figure, who was standing just far enough away to be safe. "I've already told you what you wanted to know. I doubt Waverly or Solo would let you do this!"

"They are not here," Illya Kuryakin calmly called back. "There is only me."

Leaning on the hood of his car, Illya watched the panic rise in Wells. He took no pleasure in what he was doing to the man, but he felt absolutely justified in his actions. Of course, he wasn't the callous bastard he was making himself out to be, and he wouldn't allow the dynamite to explode. That would be outright murder. Wells wasn't to know this however. He'd heard about the Russian's ruthlessness, and one look into the steely eyes had been testament enough for the THRUSH man.

From inside his pocket, Illya's communicator chirruped for attention.

"Kuryakin."

"You did it partner mine," the voice of Napoleon Solo informed him. "The information you got was genuine, and the operation is being shut as we speak."

"Was it on time?"

"Barely. They were about an hour away from releasing the poison into the water supply."

Illya allowed himself a small smile. "Thank you Napoleon. I shall see you back in New York."

He tucked the communicator away and walked back to Wells. On the way, he **scooped** up a handful of dirt, and used it to smother the candle flame. His captive gave an audible sigh of relief. Pulling out his gun and his knife, Illya set about releasing Wells.

"There is a town about a mile to the North," he told the bewildered man. "You are very lucky that I am one of the good guys. I could very happily kill you where you stand, but that would make me like you. I suggest you leave, before my previous training reasserts itself."

The expression on Illya's face left Wells with little doubt as to the validity of the words. Walking away as fast as he could, without breaking into a run, he got as far away from the mad Russian as quickly as he was able. He expected a bullet in his back at any moment, but it never came.

After waiting until Wells was nothing but a speck in the distance, Illya climbed into his car and headed for home. On the way, he would work out how to phrase his report. Mr Waverly had no issues with using certain 'persuasions', to get information, but what he had done was tantamount to psychological torture. It didn't sit too comfortably on his own conscience and, although the outcome was positive, he knew he would have to answer for the actions. If he reported them.


	3. Uneasy Lies the Head

Alexander Waverly stood in the medical suite and silently observed the two unconscious men. He'd known, as had they, that the assignment he'd sent them on was almost certainly a suicide mission. How they'd escaped the massive explosion was anyone's guess, and would only be known if, and when, they recovered. The doctor had tentatively given Napoleon Solo a good prognosis, but for Illya Kuryakin, it wasn't so positive. It was no surprise that the Russian had received the worst of it. He seemed to be a magnet for injury, but that was what made him a superb agent. The assignment always came first. The same could be said for Solo, but he seemed to have a better guardian angel.

The head of U.N.C.L.E. Northwest often had to make some **tough** decisions, and sacrificing his top team had been one of the hardest. Feelings of guilt were a luxury that Mr Waverly rarely afforded himself, but the possible loss of these two was hard to accept; even for the hardened Old Man.

A groan from one of the beds distracted Mr Waverly from his reflections, and he was surprised to see Kuryakin looking at him. The blond looked so pale, it was hard to tell where he ended, and the crisp **white** sheets began.

"Were we successful, Sir?" he asked, his voice barely a whisper.

"Yes, my boy," Waverly replied softly, marvelling at the young man's dedication to duty. "You and Mr Solo did a good job."

Illya smiled faintly and slipped back into unconsciousness, just as Napoleon moaned his way back into the waking world. His first question was also of the mission, the second was a concerned one for his partner.

"He is very unwell, Mr Solo, but I have no doubt he will recover, despite what his doctor says."

"He's stubborn like that."

Moving to Napoleon's bedside, Mr Waverly sat down in the chair. The CEA could tell his boss had something on his mind, but did push him.

"Please accept my apologies for having to send you on this assignment," the Old man finally said. "However, you must know that should the need arise, I would do it again. Somewhat reluctantly, I admit."

"Sir. Every agent knows what they sign up for, and we are all aware that an early death is likely. We have to do our duty, as you have to do yours. I just hope I'll have the courage to make those decisions when I am standing in your shoes."

"You will do admirably, Mr Solo," Waverly assured his heir presumptive. "Especially with your Russian friend to help. Now then, some of us haven't got time to lie about all day."

As Mr Waverly left the room, Napoleon looked from him to Illya. As CEA, he often had to make difficult choices, as did Illya, as Number 2 Section 2. However, it was the Wily Englishman who had the hardest task, and one day Napoleon would have to wear the crown. He wasn't sure he would ever be ready for that.


	4. Shared Understanding

Illya Kuryakin was woken from his own fitful slumber by the distressed sobs of his temporary partner. In the bright **white** moonlight, which flooded their hotel room, he could clearly see that Mark Slate was in the grip of a nightmare. The Russian was no stranger to nightmares himself, and had the feeling that Mark's were born of the same source as his own; more or less anyway. This was verified when the Brit suddenly called out for his Daddy.

Sitting up, Illya called over to Mark in an attempt to wake him. It would have been easier to shake him awake, but only an idiot would do that to a section 2 agent. Especially one experiencing a heightened sense of anxiety.

"Mark!" he called for a second time.

Slate's eyes opened and he stared at Illya with confusion. After a couple of seconds, he realised what had happened.

"Sorry if I woke you, mate. I should have warned you I often have nightmares."

"No apology is needed," Illya assured him. "It could easily have been the other way around. Your nightmare woke me from the one I was having. You do not need to answer, but were you dreaming of when you were**young**, during the war?"

"Yes," Slate admitted, also sitting up. "It's one have had hundreds of times. I assume you know how my father Dad died."

Given is position in U.N.C.L.E., Illya was privy to the personnel files. As such, he was aware that Mark had lost his father during an air raid in the London Blitz.

"I was only six, but the sight of my Dad's lifeless body has never left me," Mark told him. "I could never understand how he had survived so many battles, only to be killed while on leave. I've talked it over with the shrink, but I doubt the dreams will ever go away."

"Mine too are of the deaths of my family," Kuryakin confessed.

Mark was surprised. Not by the revelation, but by the fact Illya had volunteered the information. He had never been one for opening up about personal matters.

"My father died fighting, and my mother, grandmother and sisters were murdered by the Nazis," Illya continued. "It is not something an eight year old should witness. I dream about it at least twice a week. Each time, I think I can save them but, of course, I fail every time."

He wouldn't normally relate his painful past to anyone, other than Napoleon on occasion, but he had asked Mark outright, so it was only fair to reciprocate. In a strange way, it was nice to be talking to someone who could understand some of what he'd lived through. Solo had seen war, but not until he was older. While he tried to understand Illya's childhood, his own had been happy and safe, so he could never truly know what the Russian had endured. With Mark, Illya had someone who knew what it was to have a dangerous and disrupted childhood.

"Why were you not evacuated with the other children?" he asked the Brit.

"Mum was a bit clingy," Mark replied. "Especially after we lost Dad. I remember asking why I couldn't go with my friends, and Mum told me it wasn't safe in the country. I don't know what she thought was out there."

"I could understand if it was Russia," Illya told him with a smile. "We have wolves and bears. The biggest things you have in England are cows. Although, they can turn on you when riled."

"You're right there," Slate chuckled. "But my mother never left city. The most dangerous animal there was a flea ridden mongrel."

The agents fell into a companionable silence for a couple of minutes; each of them thinking over what the other had revealed.

"We had better get back to sleep," Mark said eventually. "We have that courier to intercept early in the morning."

"You are correct," Illya agreed. "Thank you for telling me the reason for your nightmares. At least I shall know what they are should we share a room again."

"No problem, Guv," the Londoner answered. "Thank you for the same. You can rest assured, it will stay between us."

Illya smiled. "Goodnight Mark."

"'Night Illya."


	5. All's Well

Lying on the hard ground, with his hands cuffed behind him, Napoleon Solo hoped his captors had finally accepted the truth. He knew he would be able to take further beatings, but it would be futile, as he honestly didn't know where Illya was taking the package. The contents of the package, which he was also not privy to, were so sensitive, that seven couriers were being used. The only information each person was given, was a time, a destination and a means of identifying the next courier. There was only one man in the chain who knew the destination, and that was the last one. Solo and Kuryakin had been numbers three and four. Unfortunately, Napoleon had been spotted handing off the package to Illya, but it would seem the Russian had managed to elude them.

"I reckon he's telling the truth," Goon number one stated.

"Yeah," Goon two agreed. "Besides, it's been three hours. It's probably too late to retrieve the package now."

"So what do we do with him?"

Napoleon had lost count of the times he'd heard those words, and each time, they froze his heart. They could mean one of several things. The goons might decide to beat some more, just for the fun of it. Or, they might decide to hand him over to THRUSH Central. That option was possibly the worst. Then again, his captors might just to decide to kill him outright, or dump him somewhere and let him slowly expire. Of course, there was also the chance that they might just let him go, though it was highly doubtful.

"There was something outside that might suit our purpose."

…

It had taken Illya a several hours, and a fair amount of detective work, to finally pinpoint Napoleon's general location. His investigations had led him to an extremely remote, and abandoned, farmhouse. Following a thorough search of the house, there was no sign of the American. Illya was almost ready to give up, when something caught his eye. Set slightly away from the house, he saw an ancient and dilapidated old well. It was almost hidden by the nature which was trying to reclaim it, but some of the over-growth showed signs of having recently been moved.

Illya ran to the well and looked down the shaft. Sure enough, at the bottom of the, thankfully not-too-deep well, was the crumpled form of Napoleon Solo.

"Napoleon! Are you alright? Napoleon!"

After a few seconds, in which Illya didn't take a single breath, Solo finally stirred and looked up at his partner.

"Illya? Is this a well?"

"It certainly is, my friend," the blond replied, trying not to let his relief show too much. "I'll get the rope from the car."

"My hands are behind me," Napoleon told him. I won't be able to climb."

After making a loop at one end of the rope, Illya tied the other to his car. Napoleon climbed into the loop, and his partner pulled it tight. It was going to be uncomfortably painful for the stricken man, but Napoleon figured it was a small price to pay. There was nothing to use as a make shift pulley, so they could only hope that the rough edge of the well wouldn't damage the rope. Illya voiced his concerns.

"Don't worry, Tovarisch," Napoleon assured him. "I've been dropped down here once, so a second time won't be a problem."

In the end, the concern was unnecessary. Illya took it very slowly, and eventually got Napoleon up and out.

"Can you walk?" he asked as he picked the cuffs from the American's wrists.

"Just about," Napoleon answered, as he tried to stretch the pain from his body. "Was the courier operation a success?"

"Yes," Illya confirmed. "Waverly called and told be the package was delivered. So, I suppose that all's w…"

"Don't say it!" Solo warned.

"I was only going to say, all's w…"

"I mean it, Kuryakin. If those words come out of your mouth, I'm dissolving this partnership."

Waiting until Napoleon had limped far enough away, Illya grinned and called out:

"Vsyo khorosho, chto khorosho konchayetsya!"*

The end.

_*All's well that ends well._


	6. Hidden Battles

Whenever an U.N.C.L.E. employee died, it was up to senior agents to sweep the employees home for anything which could relate to the command; such as weapons or personal defence items. Sweeps usually took about an hour, but when it came to the apartment of Section 3 agent, Bartholomew Stafford, it took four times longer. Stafford's paranoia about his personal safety was almost obsessive. He had barely scraped through his last psych evaluation. In the end, it was his paranoia which had killed him.

Stafford had booby-trapped his apparent dozens of different ways, and had seemingly forgotten what he had placed, and where. As such, when he'd taken a drink from one of the two bottles of whiskey on the cabinet, he'd picked up the one he had laced with poison. So far, Napoleon Solo and Illya Kuryakin had found hidden trip wires, a crossbow, which was ready to fire, several gas canisters, and many points of electrocution.

"I do not understand how Mr Stafford was still working for U.N.C.L.E.," Illya commented. "He obviously had very serious problems."

"Your guess is as good mine, chum," Solo replied. "But that is a question for later. Do you see those katana swords there?"

Illya looked the weapons which were displayed crossing each other.

"Yes, what about them?"

"When I was last here," Napoleon began. "They were pointing up. Now they're pointing down."

"I think Stafford took his own life," Illya suddenly announced.

The American looked at the Russian with incredulity.

"It was his paranoia which killed him. What makes you think it was suicide?"

Kuryakin strode over to where the swords were hanging.

"In the symbolism of crossed swords, blades up denote that the owner is ready to fight," he explained. "When the blades are pointed downwards, it means the battle is over. Bartholomew Stafford was clearly battling something that no-one else knew about, and I would say that he surrendered."

Napoleon had to agree. There was no way for them to ever know if Stafford's death was an accident or deliberate, but the likelihood was that it was by his own hand. The CEA had every intention of launching an inquiry into why nobody, himself included, had noticed the man's state of mind. His first call would be to the psychiatrist who had declared him fit for duty.

"These are beautiful swords," Illya said, intruding into Napoleon's thoughts.

Almost without thinking, he took one down and ran his finger along the cutting edge to test its sharpness. Within seconds, he was unconscious.

…

He awoke in medical the following day, with no knowledge of how he'd got there. Napoleon was just coming into the room as Illya opened his eyes.

"You were very lucky, Tovarisch," he told his partner. "Not every booby-trap was designed to be lethal, and the poison on the katana was a simple long-lasting knockout drug."

Illya's forehead rumpled as he reached into his foggy mind, and then silently chastised himself for doing something so stupid.

"Anyway," Solo continued. "I've been interviewing Stafford's psychiatrist, and it seems he was all ready to declare him unfit, but changed his mind when he was offered a very large bribe. As you can imagine, Mr Waverly is very unhappy. Had Dr Reynolds raised his concerns, Stafford could have been given the help he needed."

"What happens now?"

"Reynolds will be leaving us and Stafford's funeral is set for Monday." Solo told him. "Also, every single agent is going to have to attend an in-depth psych evaluation."

At any other time, Illya would have bemoaned having to see the psychiatrist. This time however, he knew he would endure it if it meant preventing anyone from taking Stafford's route.


	7. A Danger to Himself

Napoleon whistled cheerfully as he bounded up the steps to Illya's apartment, wearing fresh-from-the-packet coveralls, and carrying a set of paint brushes. They were both on a week's leave and the senior agent had agreed to help the Russian spruce up his apartment. Having spent most of his life moving around, Illya had been disinclined to stamp his own mark on place, assuming he would be moved on at any moment. However, after living in the same New York apartment for almost five years, he'd decided that it was time to acknowledge it as his home. His partner had been all too willing to help out when he was asked.

Rapping out a jaunty knock, the American continued to whistle as he waited. Half a minute later the tune faded, as Napoleon realised he was still waiting. Illya's apartment consisted of a living-cum-dining room, a modest kitchen, a small bedroom and a bathroom, so it really shouldn't take more than a few seconds for him to answer the door. Solo knocked again, calling out Illya's name as he did so. Again, there was no answer, so reaching into his pocket, Napoleon retrieved his key for the apartment, and let himself in.

The living room showed evidence of the intent to decorate. Sitting on top of a sheet of newspaper, on the small dining table, there was the lid of a can of paint. The can itself was obviously in one of the other rooms. Leaning against the table was a small, paint spattered ladder.

"Illya!"

A tight ball began to form Napoleon's stomach. If Illya was there, he would surely have made his presence known. Of course, Solo told himself, he could have simply have run out to get something he'd forgotten to get. Moving into the kitchen, Napoleon placed his hand against Illya's prized copper samovar, and found it warm to the touch. Going back to the living room, Napoleon called out Illya's name yet again, and that was when he heard the loud, low moan.

He dashed into the bedroom, and on into the bathroom and found Illya, lying on his left side, wedged between the bathtub and the toilet bowl. The yellow paint he'd been using covered half of his upper torso, and head, as well as most of the newspaper he'd protected the floor with.

"Hey chum," Solo greeted as he squatted down beside him. "Are you with me?"

"Nap. . .oleon?" Kuryakin groaned.

"What happened?"

Slowly, and groggily, Illya explained that he'd been standing on the edge of the bathtub in order to reach the higher parts of the wall. He'd somehow lost his footing and had fallen. He wasn't sure, but he estimated he'd been stuck for about thirty minutes.

"Don't move, I'll get help."

….

A few hours later, after ignoring medical advice, Illya was back in his apartment. Despite the awkwardness of his fall, his only major injury was the two broken bones in his left forearm. He had quite a few bruises forming, and the doctor was a little concerned about a concussion, but all in all it could have been much worse.

"So, Tovarisch," Napoleon began, as he handed Illya a glass of tea. "How come Mr Cat-like Agility slipped from the edge of the tub, and what was so hard about using the ladder?"

Illya merely shrugged in reply. It was an embarrassing accident, which would keep him from the field for a few weeks. He would rather just forget it.

"I guess the re-decorating will have to wait until my next leave."

"You've still got one good arm," Solo countered. "As long as we stop you from climbing on stuff, we should get the whole place done within the week. Honestly Illya, don't you get injured enough at work? You're a danger to yourself."


	8. Let Me Go

The screams had been almost constant for two days, only stopping when tranquilising medication was administered. That was when the whimpering would start which, to everyone concerned, was somehow worse than the screaming. To Napoleon Solo, it was very nearly too much for him to endure. He'd had to force himself to stay in the room as his partner and friend battled whatever insidious drug THRUSH had given him. It wasn't that he didn't want to be there for Illya, but the sight of him straining against the restraints, and begging for help in every language he knew, was difficult to bear. It was made all the worse knowing that there was nothing he could do to console the tormented Russian. By the third day, there seemed to be a small light at the end of the tunnel. Illya was still fighting against the dreams which were assaulting him, but his physical struggles had abated somewhat, and he was using only the two languages; Russian and English.

Napoleon was fitfully dozing in the chair, when a soft, tired voice called his name. He opened his eyes and looked into haunted blue ones.

"Hey, Tovarisch. How are you feeling?"

"Let me go, pozhalsta _(please)_."

The American's heart felt as though it had been ripped from his chest. Illya was a man who rarely showed his emotions, so to hear him sounding so vulnerable and afraid was heart-breaking.

"I can't do that, moy droog _(my friend)_, not until you're well again."

"Please, Napoleon," Illya pleaded forlornly. "I can't beat this, the dreams are too strange, and there's too much to do before I die."

Reaching over, Solo took hold of the Russian's hand and looked him in the eyes. Illya seemed to be focusing on him, but behind the gaze, Napoleon could almost see the fog of confusion.

"How about this, you try and sleep a bit longer, and I'll release you when you wake up."

The shame he felt at lying to his closest friend almost supplanted his feelings of helplessness. He was hoping that next time Illya woke, he wouldn't remember the promise. Letting go of the other man's hand, Napoleon stood up and stretched the fatigue from his muscles. He went over to the window and looked up to the heavens.

"Okay, I know I don't pray very often, but that's because I always figure you have better things to worry about than me. My friend here doesn't even believe in you, but it's on his behalf I come to you now. I know he is going to recover from this, I just ask that you make it soon?"

Sitting back down, Napoleon arranged himself into the least uncomfortable position he could find, and drifted back to sleep.

Several hours later, he was woken once again by Illya calling his name. This time he sounded much stronger and alert.

"Napoleon, get these damned restraints off me!"

Solo couldn't have prevented his grin if he'd tried. Admittedly, Illya had been fighting and yelling for a few days, but this was different. This was the stubborn and belligerent Illya that he knew all too well.

"I need to ask the doc first," he replied. "Can you wait at least that long?"

He was rewarded with the patented Ice Prince glare, which lifted the last of the fear from his soul.

"Make it quick," the Russian growled.

Within half an hour, Illya was freed from the restraints, but was under instructions to remain in bed. The threat of being re-restrained was enough to keep him in place, for now.

"Napoleon, you look terrible," he told his tired partner. "Are you feeling alright?"

"I could do with some sleep," Solo replied. "But, other than that, I'm okay."

"I'm glad," Illya mumbled, as his eyes began to close. "I'm not feeling that good myself."


	9. It's All Subjective

Two men walked in silence, as they headed away from their wrecked car in search of civilisation. One of the men, a tall, suave, dark haired American, looked as though he'd just stepped out of the society pages; not a auto-wreck. The other, a short, blond, Russian, could easily be mistaken for a crash fatality, but for the fact we was breathing and walking. Well, it would be more accurate to say, limping. The man was certain his ankle wasn't broken, but it was exceedingly painful. There were bruises forming on his face and there was a cut on his left palm. He was also dripping from head to foot.

"Come on, partner mine. You have to admit it was a little amusing,"

Illya stopped, forcing Napoleon to stop also and turn round to face him. The CEA could barely keep the smirk from his face.

"Amusing?" Illya queried, in that low, quiet tone most people had come to dread. "You find this situation amusing?"

"No, not the situation," Solo answered, with a grin. "Just the way you. . ."

"I would advise you to stop talking, my friend," Illya stated, flatly. "I doubt very much if you'd find it so funny if it had been you, and you had ruined yet another of your precious suits."

He began walking again, attempting to quicken the pace away from his infuriating partner. Unfortunately, Napoleon was uninjured, so easily kept in step.

"You've only got yourself to blame you know," said the American after a few more silent minutes. "You're the one who swerved into the edge of the river. It's hardly my fault that your side ended up in the water."

Once again, Illya stopped in his tracks.

"How am I to blame?" he yelled. He'd been trying to hold his frustration in, but it was no longer possible. "It wasn't me who caused that . . . that . . . animal, to run into the road."

"Bobcat," supplied Napoleon, calmly.

"What?!"

"It was a bobcat."

"Does it really matter, Napoleon?"

He was getting angry now. Ordinarily, Solo's humour had the power to get them through tense situations, but not when Illya was wet and in pain, and his partner was entirely unscathed. No-one would have ever guessed they'd been in the same vehicle.

"If you'd seen the way you slipped on that rock when you got out of the car, you'd have laughed too," Napoleon continued. "You're usually a lot more graceful than that, so to see you flailing around like a hippo on ice tickled me."

He never saw the fist coming.

Landing heavily on his backside, and in a puddle, Napoleon finally realised he'd pushed it too far. He'd been attempting to lighten his friend's mood, by pointing out the funny side of it all, but Illya was having none of it. Admittedly, mocking the man's dignity probably wasn't the best way to go about it, but it had worked in the past.

"You do realise that you've just assaulted a superior agent," he called out the Russian, who was hobbling away.

"A superior blockhead more like," Kuryakin retorted.

He turned back to continue his opinion of the CEA's supposed superiority, but the sight of Napoleon stopped the words before they even began. Illya really did try to keep his expression serious. However, one look at Solo and his soggy rear-end was enough to dispel the cloud hanging over him. Nothing on Earth could have held back the laugh which erupted from Illya. It went on for so long that Napoleon began to worry he would hyperventilate.

Finally, after Solo had got back to his feet, Illya managed to get a control of himself.

"Now that, I'm sure you'll agree, given your earlier statements about me, was amusing."

Napoleon said nothing. He simply offered his partner a sour look, before continuing their journey.


	10. Trapped

Peeking over the edge of the ornamental fountain, Napoleon looked forlornly at the gun he'd dropped. The black weapon stood out against the lush green lawn, almost mocking the predicament he'd got himself into. There was simply no way of recovering it without drawing fire from the gunmen on the balcony, overlooking the garden. Shuffling into a seated position, Napoleon pulled out his communicator and called Illya.

"I'm in a little trouble, Tovarisch," he whispered into the device.

"Where did you find a woman in an almost empty building?"

"Are you still in the house?" Solo asked, choosing to ignore the barbed question.

The assignment they were on concerned the retrieval of THRUSH personnel details from the private home of one of the hierarchy's treasurers. Upon entering the house, they'd split with the plan for whoever found the files to call the other. They were then to leave and rendezvous at the vehicle they had left nearby. The owner of the house was out of town and Napoleon, who had successfully found the information they wanted, had managed to get himself cornered by the two man security team.

"I haven't quite left yet," Illya told his partner. "Where are you?"

"I'm trapped in the garden," Solo explained. "If I move from this position I'm dead. There are two Thrushies on a balcony with their guns trained on me."

Napoleon could almost hear the eye roll which went along with the very audible sigh.

"Can't you shoot them?"

Another sighed followed Napoleon's confession that he had dropped his gun.

"Hey," Solo protested. "There were guys shooting at me at the time."

"I shall be with you shortly," Illya assured, before signing off.

Tucking the communicator away, Napoleon risked another peek at the Thrushies. As he twisted himself, around, one of the guards made the most of the brief glimpse of the agent's left shoulder, and took a shot. The bullet grazed Napoleon's upper arm and he dropped back down with a hiss.

"Trust me to find the only feathered goon who can shoot straight," he muttered to himself.

After a few minutes of waiting for Illya to play his hand, Napoleon was beginning to wonder if the Russian was ever coming to his aid. It wasn't until he heard his name being called that he realised his rescue had been implemented. Looking back to the balcony, he could see the insensible forms of the two guards through the gaps in the balustrade. Standing between them, with an impatient stance, was Illya.

"Are you ready now?" he called down. "Don't forget your gun."

With that, Illya turned back and headed back through the house. Napoleon caught up with him at the main door.

"Thanks for the rescue," he said. "I can't believe I got into a rookie mess."

Illya smiled and offered a 'you're welcome'. As they climbed into the vehicle, the smile disappeared at Napoleon's next utterance.

"It's just as well I've got my trusty side-kick."


	11. Undercover Uncovering

There was only one word which described the place, and Napoleon knew it covered almost all establishments of its type. The word was 'seedy'. The particular strip joint made others he'd been in seem positively stylish. Not that Napoleon had been in many. For all he admired the female form, he had standards. Nobody took any notice of him as he made his way to a table, as close as he could get to the stage. Giving the hostess his drinks order, Napoleon settled down to await the courier who was delivering a microfilm to him. He smiled slightly to himself, imagining the raised eyebrows he would cause in accounting when he claimed reimbursement for the entrance fee.

Even though it wasn't his sort of place, Napoleon very quickly began to enjoy the show. The girls were very good at what they did, and the audience definitely appreciated them. They didn't reveal everything, of course, but what was left was hardly worth mentioning. After the third act had finished her piece, the compere walked onto the stage.

"We have a treat for you now gentlemen. For one night only, we have an artiste from the Big Apple. I just know you're gonna love this sensual red-head. Please welcome, Miss Too-Hot-To-Handle."

The crowd erupted into cheers and wolf whistles, as April Dancer slinked onto the stage. She was covered in dozens of chiffon scarves, which swayed hypnotically as she sashayed. Each piece of cloth was coloured red, orange or yellow; to give the effect of flame. Shimmying and gyrating, April plucked the scarves from her red leotard and began throwing them out to the baying crowd. Napoleon had to stop himself from sneering at the men who were behaving more like begging dogs.

April was well out of her comfort zone, and had made a promise to herself to find out who had set up this hand-off. As an experienced agent, she knew for a fact that there were easier, and just as secure, methods of handing a microfilm over. In the back of her mind, she felt certain that the person responsible probably had a thing against women being agents. However, she couldn't worry about that until later.

Agent Dancer had spotted Napoleon as soon as she'd arrived on stage, but she had to play out her act, to avoid suspicion. She threw scarves to the men who were begging for them, and slowly worked her way towards Napoleon. When she was in front of him, April turned and wiggled her backside, knowing all too well how much Napoleon enjoyed a shapely posterior. Turning back to him, she plucked the scarf which had the microfilm sewn into the edge, from her leotard. April had known that her contact was going to be Napoleon, so had placed that particular scarf directly over, what her mother called, 'her secret treasure'. Judging by the way Napoleon had crossed his legs, she knew she'd aroused something.

Winking suggestively, April held the yellow scarf out to him, but pulled it away again as he reached up. She shook her head and mouthed the word 'beg'. Napoleon put his together, as if in prayer, and gave her his most dazzling smile. April returned the smile and tossed the scarf to him. He caught it with on hand and blew her a kiss with the other.

With the hand off completed, April completed her performance and left the stage. Napoleon waited until the next act had finished before he left. As he climbed into his car, he began to wonder if April would be available for private show.


	12. Horror at Home

Alexander Waverly was finally heading home following an extremely trying day. It had started with an attempted coup in South America, and had ended with a deputation from accounting demanding he curb Mr Solo's expense claims. The coup was the easier to deal with.

Mr Waverly entered the house, following the usual security palaver, and was greeted by his wife.

"Good evening my dear," he said, as he kissed her cheek. "How was your day?"

"It's been wonderful, Alex," Veronica Waverly enthused. "Your people finally came to start redecorating our bedroom."

Veronica had been nagging her husband for weeks about changing the décor, but because of his position, they couldn't just hire anyone. The solution was to utilise the housekeeping and maintenance team from HQ.

"Come and take a look."

Waverly couldn't help but smile at his wife's excitement. She always loved a project. The smile evaporated upon seeing her choice of colour. Everything was pink; many different shades of pink. He gazed around with his mouth agape, trying to formulate a response.

"What do you think, dear?" Mrs Waverly asked him.

Her words snapped him from his horror, and he pointed at the person who was cheerily painting the walls.

"Disarm that man!" He demanded.

"It's a paintbrush not a gun," Veronica stated sadly. "And, I take it you aren't keen on the palette."

Alexander looked into his wife's eyes and realised his reaction had hurt her.

"I'm sorry," he told her, pulling her in for a hug. "It's just a little too much for my taste. I have nothing against the colour per se, but could we perhaps tone it down just a little?"

Pulling his unused handkerchief from his pocket, Mr Waverly gently dabbed at the corner of Veronica's eyes. He always did that when she was upset, and it made her fall in love with him all over again, every time.

"I did tell you at breakfast what I was going to do" she told him. "I should know by now that, when you're behind that newspaper, it would take one of Mr Kuryakin's explosive devices to get your attention."

Waverly kissed her on the cheek again and took hold of her hand.

"Come on, dear. I'm sure dinner is almost ready, and we can discuss any other plans you may have for this house.


	13. A new Policy

"Good morning, Olivia," Napoleon enthused as he leaned in for his badge. "Are you still free for our date tonight?"

"Of course," the blonde replied, pinning the badge on and handing Illya his. "I'll even wear that purple dress you like."

"Even better," Solo answered, with a wink.

He and Illya were halfway to their office when they were stopped by Jennifer, who was covering for Lisa Rogers while she was on vacation.

"Mr Waverly has arranged a meeting for 11am," she told them both, before turning her attention entirely to Napoleon. "Are we still going dancing tomorrow?"

"Barring any sudden assignments, we certainly are," he told her. "Do you still have that purple two-piece that looks so good?"

"I do," she confirmed. "I'll be sure to wear it."

Illya was so used to his partner's endless social calendar that he didn't even bother with one of his trademarked eye rolls. At least, not until the third woman enquired about the beach date she had scheduled for the weekend.

"I've bought the cutest little purple bikini," Debbie purred.

Upon reaching the office, Illya finally spoke up.

"How do keep track of them all?" he queried. "And what is with all the purple?"

"I happen to like women in purple, and they know it," Solo explained, ignoring the first question entirely.

Illya merely shrugged in response, before telling Napoleon he would see him in Waverly's office at 11am.

….

The Russian was already there when Napoleon arrived. As the door slid open, Illya and Mr Waverly could hear the CEA arranging a date with Jessica from communications.

"Good of you to join us," Waverly harrumphed upon Solo's greeting.

"You're just in time, Napoleon," Illya commented. "Mr Waverly was just telling me about the new policy he is about to implement."

Kuryakin had to really give his boss his due. The Old Man's expression barely flickered at the sudden revelation of a policy he knew nothing about.

"What new policy?" Napoleon asked, taking his seat.

"I've already gone through it once," Waverly lied. "Mr Kuryakin will give you the overview."

He wasn't generally a man for practical jokes or pranks, but Mr Waverly had an inkling of what Kuryakin was up to, and was interested in seeing Solo's reaction.

"Basically, it has been noticed that intra-office relationships are detrimental to an agent's effectiveness." Illya explained. "To that end, all relationships between agents and staff are hereby banned."

Napoleon couldn't believe what he was hearing. He tried to put the words together to voice a protest, but only succeeded in producing a relatively good goldfish impression. Instead, he looked from Illya to Waverly with a look of sheer horror. It wasn't until he noticed the shaking of is partners shoulders, and the way Waverly was sucking on his pipe, that he realised they were having him on. He expected that sort of thing from Illya, but not from his chief.

"Very funny," he said, with the tone of a sulky teen.

"Just a harmless joke, Mr Solo," Waverly soothed. "No harm done. Now can we get back to the reason for this meeting?"

"Yes Sir," both men replied in unison.

As Mr Waverly began, Napoleon glared over to Illya. The promised threat in the look did nothing to wipe the smile from the Russian's face.


	14. The Other Side

The howl of fury, which tore from the mouth and soul of the THRUSH agent, was barely human. Mitchell Cooke watched in despair as the helicopter, stolen by Solo and Kuryakin, flew towards the grey expanse of the sky. As they disappeared towards they horizon, U.N.C.L.E.'s top agents took with them, the plans and prototype for a new laser weapon.

Cooke turned on his heels and yelled for the nearest boiler-suited guard.

"Tell me, Jacobson," he said in a calm tone, which belied the inner rage. "Just how did they get in here to steal the weapon in the first place?"

"I'm sorry Sir, we really don't know," Jacobson blurted out. "Three guards have been found unconscious, but it seems none of them managed to get a warning out."

Cooke practically growled in frustration. "In one hour, a senior member of central is coming here to witness a demonstration of the device. What am I supposed to tell him?"

The guard could only shrug, though he had a feeling his boss was looking for a scapegoat, and was probably going to throw him to the lions.

"Go and wait for him by the gate," Cooke ordered. "I shall be in my office."

For the next hour, Cooke paced the office. THRUSH were not going to look kindly on him and the thought of some of the punishments he'd witnessed in the past turn his blood cold. A part of him wanted to flee, but he knew there was no point. The Hierarchy had eyes everywhere, meaning he would never be safe.

By the time Elliot Flanagan, the man from Central, arrived, Cooke had worked himself into a state of near terror. He held a very shaky hand out to greet his visitor. It was ignored completely.

"Mr Jacobson here tells me you allowed the weapon to be stolen," Flanagan stated coldly.

"N…not allowed," Cooke corrected. "I didn't even know Solo and Kuryakin were here until they were escaping."

"Upon my arrival, I was told of your absolute incompetence in this matter," the man continued. "It would seem the report was not exaggerated."

Coke looked to Jacobson with a silent accusation of betrayal. The guard smiled. He wasn't going to take any chances where Cooke was concerned, and had fired a pre-emptive strike. The terrified man turned back to Flanagan and found himself at the end of a pistol. Before he could utter another word, Flanagan fired a single shot, straight between the eyes.

"Congratulations Mr Jacobson," he said to the smiling guard. "You are now the head of this facility. I suggest you get someone to clear up this mess, and then you can give me the tour."


	15. Check Before Crossing

The THRUSH courier, Clancy Bevan, glanced behind him as he hurried along the sidewalk. Kuryakin, who had been following him for almost thirty minutes, was still in sight. Anyone observing the Russian would have seen a man, without a care in the world, strolling along the street. Bevan saw an enemy agent, intent on relieving him of the microfilm he carried. He knew, if he could make it another block, he would find one of the cars THRUSH had dotted around the city, for emergency purposes. However, any hopes of reaching the vehicle were dashed when Napoleon Solo emerged from around a corner ahead of him.

Bevan's options became even more limited. Without any warning, he suddenly turned to the right and began weaving through the moving traffic. Illya was about to perform a similar manoeuvre when Bevan made his mistake. His last one, as it turned out. Glancing behind once again, the courier failed to notice the motorcycle, which was also weaving. The bike hit him and threw him into the path of a large, white van. The impact killed him instantly.

Traffic immediately came to a stop, and several people ran towards the body. Illya got to it first. He checked for vital signs before making a play of looking for ID. The onlookers weren't to know he was really searching for the microfilm. Finding it between two credit cards, Illya quickly palmed it before standing and shaking his head sadly.

"I am afraid he is dead," he told the bystanders solemnly.

Noticing that Napoleon had joined the assembled crowd, he gave him an almost imperceptible nod in answer to his silent question. Yes, he did have what they were looking for. Solo drifted away again just as a police officer arrived on the scene. Illya handed the officer the dead man's wallet.

"He simply ran into the traffic," he informed him.

As the officer tried took control of the scene, including trying to calm the distraught van driver, Illya melted into the crowd before making his way back to headquarters.


	16. Before the Beginning

**Cambridge 1951**

Napoleon Solo was celebrating his 19th birthday, even though it wasn't actually his birthday. That wouldn't happen for another three months, but by then, he would be fighting in Korea. As an early gift, his parents had offered him a week-long trip to anywhere he wanted for himself and a friend. On a whim, Napoleon had chosen London.

It took Napoleon and Pete all of four hours from arriving to find female company. Sandra and Diane were twins, and were both students at Cambridge University. They'd gone into London for a day of shopping and had been swept of their feet by the two handsome Americans. That had been four days ago. Since then, the girls had shown the visitors around London and Cambridge, and the four now found themselves in a pub near to their college.

"If you ladies will excuse me," Solo said as he stood up. "Nature calls. I'll get the drinks on my way back."

As Napoleon made his way back from the bar, armed with a tray of drinks, he was jostled by a short, blond guy. The glasses fell from the tray and shattered at his feet.

"I'm very sorry," the blond replied, in a thick Russian accent. "Please allow me to replace your drinks."

"No thanks," Napoleon replied, coldly. "I don't need anything from a communist. I can stand the loss."

"Typical American," the other man stated, his voice tinged with ice. "Always having to prove you have money."

Illya Kuryakin's friends saw the trouble brewing, and quickly steered him away from the conflict. With a dismissive shrug, Napoleon re-ordered his drinks and returned to his table. The confrontation was soon forgotten.

A few years later, neither man remembered the other, or the incident, when they were partnered by Alexander Waverly.


	17. An Oasis

The last thing Alexander Waverly expected, when he stepped onto the roof of headquarters, was to find Illya Kuryakin tending a small garden.

The Old Man occasionally went up there for a little fresh air, especially if he'd had a trying morning. He'd noticed the small garden slowly growing in size, and had witnessed a few of the staff planting and watering, but he would never have thought to see one of his toughest agents doing the same. The man was carefully plucking weeds from between the lush, green foliage, and was apparently engrossed in the task.

"Did you need me, Sir?"

Not so engrossed then, Waverly mused.

"Not at all, Mr Kuryakin," the chief told him. "I was just taking a breather. I hope I'm not disturbing you."

Illya climbed to his feet, and assured his boss he wasn't intruding.

"Somebody brought a garden chair up here a few days ago," he commented, before setting it up.

"I'm not so decrepit yet, but I won't say no. Thank you."

Waverly sat down and lit up his ever-present pipe. Illya dropped back to his knees and his previous task.

"I wouldn't have taken you for a gardener, Mr Kuryakin."

"It's been a long time," Illya replied, after a long pause. "My Babushka had a small flower garden when I was a child. She used to let me help her."

Waverly was astonished. Not at the revelation, but that fact it had been revealed at all. Kuryakin was not one to mention his childhood, or family, to anyone. He stared at the Russian's back, and could see from the change in body language that he hadn't intended for that fact to be known.

"My grandchildren like to plant flowers," the Old Man replied. "Though that is more my wife's province. I don't really have the time."

Illya didn't answer. He simply continued his weeding.

Waverly lapsed into silence and sucked on his pipe. As he watched the other man quietly working, he noticed that the little garden was attracting quite a few butterflies. They fluttered from flower to flower, adding their beauty to that of the blooms. He had no idea who had begun the garden, with its many pots and troughs, but he was suddenly grateful for its presence. Anything that gave his Russian acquisition a link to happier memories could only be a good thing.

Carefully and silently, Waverly stood up and left Illya to his ministrations.


	18. Contact

Napoleon Solo and Illya Kuryakin entered the bar and were instantly on the look-out for their contact. The description they'd been given was of a fair-haired, bearded man, of average height. He was apparently wearing a dark suit with a red tie. The pair were immediately presented with a problem.

"There are two men who match the man we're looking for," Kuryakin observed.

There were indeed two men who fit the description; one at either end of the bar.

"We'll take one each," Napoleon replied. "Whoever gets the right man will leave with him, and the other with catch up later."

They split up, with Illya taking the man farthest from the door. He slid onto the stool beside his target and ordered a drink. Taking a sidelong glance at the man, Illya was struck by the amount of gold jewellery he was wearing. There was a ring on every finger, a chunky bracelet and watch, and chunky necklace. The presence of the gold made Illya nervous. If this man wasn't their contact, then the code phrase was probably going to cause him quite a few problems.

"What are you looking at?" the man snarled.

"Scratch away the surface gold and you'll reveal the tin beneath."

"Say what?!"

Despite knowing the situation was going to end badly, Illya repeated the phrase.

At the other end of the bar, Napoleon greeted the man he had aimed for, which a cheery nod.

"Scratch away the surface gold and you'll reveal the tin beneath," he said quietly.

"The worth is not brought by the gold."

As the two men stood to leave, their attention was caught by a commotion at Illya's end of the bar. The Russian was being hauled to his feet by an extremely angry looking man. Napoleon winced as a large fist connected with his partner's eye. Ordinarily, he would have gone to Illya's aid, but that would have put the whole operation at risk. The contact was in possession of some very sensitive information and he needed to get to HQ as soon as possible.

With a touch of regret, Napoleon, and the contact, left Illya to fend for himself.

When Illya returned to headquarters, one side of his face was already puffy and bruised.

"Oh hey, Tovarisch," he said a little too breezily, as the Russian entered their office. "Did you win?"

"Of course I did," Illya told him with pride. "But tell me Napoleon, why is it always me who gets the worst of it?"

Several quips flitted through the American's mind, but for once, he let them slide.

"Come on, I'll buy you a couple of steaks. Once to eat, and one for your face."


	19. Incriminating Evidence

Napoleon glanced at his watch as Illya strolled into the office and sat down at his desk.

"You've been a while," he commented.

"I hadn't realised I was under a time constriction," Illya replied, without looking up.

"Hey, don't get defensive. I was just pointing out it has taken you over an hour to go the file you wanted from archives. A file, I notice, you appear not to have."

"I couldn't find the information I needed," Kuryakin told him, still avoiding eye contact.

Napoleon wrinkled his nose as a familiar scent drifted over from the direction of his partner. He took a couple of experimental sniffs and smiled. Standing up, he stepped across to Illya's desk.

"Was there anyone else in file room then?"

Unable to ignore the man right in front of him, Illya finally looked Napoleon in the face.

"No, I was alone."

Solo searched the other man's eyes for the lie, but saw nothing but two sky blue pools of absolute innocence. That, of course, meant nothing. Illya was an expert at masking the truth. Still, the aroma he'd detected was stronger now that Napoleon had gotten closer. Leaning in close, he inhaled deeply.

"Tell me, Tovarisch, when did you start wearing Chanel No.5?" he queried.

Illya sighed deeply, frustrated at having been caught out. His dalliance hadn't been planned, but when Miss Cassidy had made advances on him in the file room, he had been feeling receptive. There had been nothing more than some serious kissing and a little fondling, but both parties had left the room satisfied.

"Fine, you caught me out, but I will not divulge the name of the lady involved."

Napoleon gave his partner one of his infuriatingly smug grins, but didn't say anything. He simply went back to his own desk. Illya watched him closely, waiting for the inevitable ribbing. When it didn't come, he cautiously went back to his report; knowing full well, Napoleon would not let things drop for some time.


	20. Another Rescue

Almost six hours had passed since Illya's disappearance. He and Napoleon had been pursuing separate leads on a Chinese smuggling ring, with possible ties to THRUSH. Illya's last contact had been to inform his partner that he was about to enter a store in Chinatown, purporting to be a book store. Although, judging by the window display, he seemed to think books were only a minor section of the stock on offer. Since then, there had been no further contact, and all attempts to call his communicator had failed.

Luckily, Napoleon knew the area where Illya had been when they last spoke. He'd also been told the name of the book shop, though he didn't believe it. It wasn't until he was standing in front of the Wong Fook Hing Book Store that he had to accept it as true. Shaking his head in wonderment at the name, Napoleon entered the store and began to 'browse'.

Slowly and carefully, Napoleon made his way around the store. Every so often he would pick up and inspect an item, all the while making a mental note of the store's layout. As he made his way towards the back of the store, he began to hear a hushed conversation from behind a behind a beaded curtain.

"Someone from Central will be coming sometime in the next few hours. Are you sure the room is secure?"

"Cellar only one door, no windows. Also, he chained and knocked on head."

"Good. I'm sure my superiors will wish to reward you for such a highly valued prize."

It could only be Illya, Napoleon thought to himself. He needed to get down to the cellar, but he couldn't try yet. Keeping up the browsing pretence a little longer, Napoleon made his way out. He decided to wait for another thirty minutes before mounting a rescue.

When he deemed the time was right, Napoleon made his way around to the back of the book store. It took him next to no time to break in through a flimsy window. With his special in hand, Solo went in search of the cellar. He would never admit it out loud, but Napoleon was more than a little worried. It was the first time he'd had to locate and rescue his partner, but the words 'knocked on head' were what concerned him. The store's owner seemed to think Illya would remain unconscious for the next few hours, so it must have been quite a blow.

Finally locating the door to the cellar, Napoleon checked he was alone before picking the two padlocks which were holding the heavy bolts closed. He hadn't known what to expect when he opened the door, but what he found was not it.

"I don't believe this!"

Illya was sitting atop a pile of books, reading another. He had a steel shackle around his left ankle, chaining him to the ground.

"What don't you believe?"

"I've been worried sick," he told the other man. "I was under the impression you'd been given a possible head injury."

Illya rubbed the back of his head and winced.

"Admittedly, whatever they hit me with rendered me unconscious for a few hours, and hurt quite a lot, but I don't think it's all that bad."

"Did attempting to escape not enter your thoughts at any point?"

Illya raised a quizzical eyebrow at Napoleon's tone of voice. He seemed annoyed for some reason.

"Of course it did," he replied. "Unfortunately, I forgot to replace my lock pick in these shoes, and I have no explosives on me. I decided to just wait until either they came to move me, or you came to rescue me."

It briefly crossed Solo's mind to leave the Russian where he was, but he doubted Mr Waverly would be too pleased with that. Kneeling down, he swiftly freed his partner and helped him to his feet. The fact Illya dropped to his knees immediately, indicated to Napoleon that he was obviously more injured than he was letting on. Glancing at the back of Illya's head, he was greeted by the sight of blood-matted hair.

"Okay, Tovarisch, up you get," he prompted. "Let's get you to medical. Maybe we should have them put a room on permanent reservation for you."

"Very funny, Solo," Illya slurred, the effort of moving causing a sudden deterioration. "Just get me out of here."

Napoleon saluted and guided his partner to freedom.


	21. Accidental

Illya nudged the body with his foot. He didn't need to look any closer to know the man was definitely dead; nobody's head could be at that angle naturally. It had been an accident; Illya hadn't wanted to kill him.

Only five minutes previously, Brian Cheedle had stormed into the cellar where he was holding the Russian captive. Illya had spent three days either chained to a stone pillar, or tied to a steel chair. He could feel bruises covering most of his torso, and was certain there was a broken rib or too, but there had been no point in worrying while he was still chained up.

Cheedle came to a stop directly in front of Illya.

"Your information was false," he spat. "I don't like having my time wasted."

Turning to the guard he'd brought with him, Cheedle ordered Illya to be released from the pillar, then told him to leave. The guard did as instructed, leaving the prisoner slumped on the floor at his captor's feet.

Illya heard the gun, as it was pulled from the holster, mere seconds before he felt the barrel against the top of his head. He was tired, and he was in a lot of pain, but he was not ready to die just yet. Closing his eyes momentarily, Illya had drawn together whatever reserves he'd had left. With all the strength he could muster, he dived forward and knocked Cheedle's legs from under him. As he'd fallen, Cheedle had hit the pillar face first. His head had snapped back, breaking his neck instantly.

Getting to his feet, somewhat shakily, Illya plucked the hideous yellow handkerchief from the dead man's breast pocket. He opened it out and draped it over Cheedle's face. Turning away, he shuffled towards the door, but before he got there, it was opened from the other side. Illya readied himself to take on the guard, but was pleasantly surprised to come face to face with Napoleon. The American took in the scene, particularly the body of the late Brian Cheedle.

"I come all this way, and you don't even need a rescue," Solo quipped.

Despite the levity of the statement, Illya could see the relief in his friend's eyes.

"If you weren't always so late, I wouldn't have to rely on myself."

Napoleon smiled at the comeback. If Illya was snarky, then all was well with the world.


	22. The Late Napoleon Solo

Illya Kuryakin glanced at his watch. Napoleon would be arriving back in the states shortly, following an assignment in Europe. The Russian was looking forward to the American's return, for no other reason than Napoleon had promised to made good on one of the dinners he owed him. Pushing that thought aside temporarily, Illya got back to the pile of paperwork his partner had left for him.

Ten minutes later, he was disturbed by Ellie from Communications. She burst into his office and stood in front of him, wringing her hands.

"What is wrong, Miss Christopher?"

"Oh, Mr Kuryakin," she wailed. "It's terrible. Napoleon is dead!"

Illya was instantly on his feet.

"Are you sure?" he demanded.

Death was an ever present danger in their line of work, but no one ever really imagined it would happen to them, or their partner.

"Tell me what happened," he urged Ellie, as he guided the shaking woman to a chair.

"The plane he was booked onto has crashed," she sobbed, before blowing her nose into a proffered handkerchief. "It went into the ocean."

Illya shook his head. The usually pragmatic agent refusing to believe he had lost the only friend he'd ever truly trusted.

"Has anyone tried contacting him?"

"There's no point . . ." Ellie began.

"No point?!" Illya yelled, cutting her off. "Surely you aren't just accepting that he's gone."

"You don't understand," the woman shot back, cowering slightly from the angry man in front of her. "He lost his communicator while on assignment. The last contact we had was when he telephoned from the airport in Paris."

"I need to see Waverly," he murmured, before darting out of his office.

He returned a few seconds later. "Thank you, for letting me know, Miss Christopher," he said to the distraught woman. "And I apologise for shouting at you."

By now, news of the crash, and Napoleon's demise, had spread around the building. No one attempted to stop Illya as he sprinted to Waverly's office. To do so would have been almost suicidal. Even the Old Man's last line of defence, Lisa Rogers, allowed the man to pass her unhindered. She knew her boss would be expecting him.

"Please take a seat, Mr Kuryakin," Mr Waverly told him, as he gestured to one with his pipe.

"Is what I've been told correct, Sir?"

Waverly carefully looked as his Soviet agent. He had known from the beginning that Solo and Kuryakin would make a formidable team, but had often worried that their friendship would get in the way of their effectiveness. He'd been proved wrong numerous times, but seeing the fear on young man's face had him wondering if may have lost two excellent agents. Oh, he had no doubt that Illya would still be able to his job, but was certain his edge would be lost without his partner to back him up.

"All we know is that the plane Mr Solo had told us he would be on has crashed into the ocean," Waverly explained. "I have several people trying to ascertain whether he was actually on board."

Illya was about to reply when the telephone on the desk rang. Waverly turned away as he answered it. He tried to listen in, but Mr Waverly kept is voice low. When he turned back, the agent noticed a change in the Old Man's features. Mr Waverly wasn't one for showing his emotions, but Illya couldn't miss the look of relief in his eyes.

"It would seem that Mr Solo was distracted by a pretty face at the airport, and missed his flight."

Illya couldn't have held back his grin even if he had wanted to.

"I presume he'll be taking a later flight."

"He will," Waverly confirmed. "And I think, this time, we can forgive his weaknesses."

Both men, although saddened at the loss of the people who had been on the plane, were relieved they still had the CEA with them in this life.

The following day, Napoleon strolled into his office, and greeted his partner, happily.

"You're late again," Illya scolded, though his smile negated the harshness of the words. "And you still owe me dinner."


	23. Patience

Patience was the key.

Many people had asked Illya, over the years, how he managed to survive the tortures and beatings he received on a regular basis. He always told them it was all part of the job, and therefore something to be endured. The truth was simply that he was patient. Illya knew that all situations would end, either in rescue or in death. Either way, the pain would be over, so there was little point in worrying about it.

It was a virtue he'd learned early in his childhood. There were times when food was scarce, especially in the winter, and painfully empty bellies would go for days before being filled. Despite this, the young Illya had always known food would be provided eventually, and the grumbling from his stomach would be settled. Usually it ended up being cabbage, or some other green vegetable, which would invariably be made into soup. Of course, it wasn't until much later he'd realised that, in order to keep their children healthy, his parents were going without.

Illya's ability to be patient had served him well over the years, especially in his working life. From endless hours serving on a submarine, to waiting for an enemy of the state to confess, up to sitting on an interminable stake-out while watching a THRUSH operative. It came in especially handy when he was left waiting in a hotel lobby for his partner to conclude whatever business he had with a woman upstairs.

Sometimes, his patience was sorely tested. There were times when even he allowed despair to take over. As he rocked his nephew, Pyotr*, softly singing to the child in an attempt to end his three hour crying session, Illya kept telling himself that the boy's parents would return soon; and that patience was most definitely the key.

_*Awakening Ghosts &amp; Uncle Illya._


	24. The Hunt

With a quite unnecessary flourish, Napoleon Solo signed off on the last of the agents' reports which had been demanding his attention for a week. He would have been happy to let them slide a little longer if it hadn't been for the week long mission to Europe he and Illya were scheduled for. Their flight was due to leave in three hours, which would give Napoleon plenty of time to have a quick lunch with Monica, from Archives.

Before heading out of the office, he patted himself down. It was a subconscious habit, making certain he had what he needed about his person. The slight bump, which indicated the presence of his communicator, was conspicuous by its absence. Napoleon checked the pocket properly but found it to be devoid of the slim, **silver** device. Cursing to himself, he made a search of the rest of his pockets, and still came up empty.

"Waverly will kill me," he muttered, as he began to move the things on his desk.

The pen-like device was nowhere to be seen on the fairly tidy surface, so Napoleon moved his **hunt** to the three drawers beneath. It was as he dug through the third drawer, with an ever increasing sense of panic, that Illya entered the office.

"Have you lost something, my friend?" he asked.

"My communicator," Solo replied. "It's the fourth one this year. Do you know how much those things cost?"

"Since when were you worried about the cost of equipment?"

"Since this is the second one I've lost, while not on assignment, this year," Napoleon told him. "Waverly was extremely emphatic that the cost of the next one would be taken out of my pay."

"Ah, I see," Illya replied, with a nod of understanding. "I suppose I should give you this then."

Solo looked up at his partner to see him grinning and holding up a communicator.

"Is that mine?" he queried. "What are you doing with it?"

"You left it in Mr Waverly's office after this morning's meeting," the Russian explained. "I would have brought it to you earlier, but I had to give an explosives class."

Napoleon jumped to his feet and reclaimed his communicator.

"I owe you one," he said as he tucked the device in his pocket and headed through the door. "I'll buy you dinner in Madrid. If I hurry, I can still squeeze in lunch with Monica.


	25. Averted

Alexander Waverly and Napoleon Solo watched in horror at the pictures they were being shown. Image after image showed them the catastrophic destruction of some of the world's best known landmarks and buildings. The two men sat in silence as they saw India's Taj Mahal crumbling, the White House in ruins, and the Clock Tower of Britain's Palace of Westminster in flames, as well as many others. Waverly waved for the projector to be shut off.

"I think we get the idea, Mr Kuryakin," he said.

"From the information we extracted from captured THRUSH agents," Illya explained. "These images, along with detailed instructions, were part of a plan to destroy several important and cultural sites simultaneously. The plans were to be implemented on Friday of this week."

"That's tomorrow!" Napoleon stated.

"The plan has been halted, Mr Solo," Waverly told him. "Before bringing this information to us, Mr Kuryakin took it upon himself to set counter-operations in motion worldwide."

"Without informing you?" Solo asked.

"Of course he informed me," Waverly confirmed. "But as his decisions mirrored what my instructions would have been, I saw little point in countermanding him."

Napoleon offered his partner a 'teacher's pet' expression. Illya merely smiled.


	26. Friendship

"It was a dark and stormy night," Napoleon murmured as he stared out of the hotel window, at the ominous purple sky and black clouds.

"Shouldn't that be 'is'?" came a pain-filled voice from the bed.

"Probably," Solo replied, looking over to his sick colleague. "But those cheesy detective novels always start in the past tense."

"You do not have to stay here, my friend," Illya told his partner. "I know you are bored. I'm sure you can go out and find some better company."

Ordinarily, whenever they found themselves away from home following an assignment, Napoleon would have no qualms about heading out for the evening. This time was different. During the course of shutting down another satrap, Illya had been exposed to an unknown gas. They were too far from any U.N.C.L.E. office, but a visit to a nearby hospital was enough to assuage their fears. Illya had been exposed to a modified influenza. The doctor assured him he would recover, but he would be quite unwell for a couple of days.

Naturally, despite protestations from the doctor and Napoleon, Illya refused to stay at the hospital. So, armed with medications to relieve the Russian's symptoms, the agents booked into a local hotel; with the permission of Mr Waverly.

"I'm going nowhere, Tovarisch," Napoleon told Illya. "Someone has to make sure you take your medicine."

Illya huffed, which thanks to his difficulty in breathing, rapidly turned into a coughing fit and then caused him to vomit. Napoleon had seen what was about to happen and hurriedly helped him to sit up, and placed the waste paper basket in front of him. He rubbed the stricken man's back until the vomiting subsided.

"You see, I can't trust you not to choke to death if I leave you on your own."

The fact Illya was deathly pale, and shaking like a leaf were also contributory factors to Solo staying put. As his partner fell into a fevered sleep, Napoleon wondered once again why it was Illya who bore the brunt yet again.


	27. The Showman

For the third time in a week, Napoleon walked into the commissary and found it almost devoid of any female staff. The first couple of times, he'd put it down to the gloriously warm and sunny weather. He'd recently learned that many of the secretaries liked to eat lunch in a nearby public garden*. Today though, the rain was torrential, so he'd expected the commissary to be fuller.

Napoleon grabbed himself some lunch, a salad which looked at least two days old, and sat down at his usual corner table. Someone else, who was conspicuous by his absence, was Illya. He never knowing missed a meal, especially when working within HQ. Solo also knew, however, that the Russian could lose himself for hours if he managed to get into the labs.

"Alright Mate!"

Napoleon looked up from his salad into the smiling face of Mark Slate, and gestured for him to sit down.

"What's that?" the Brit queried, pointing at Napoleon's plate.

"If I was to hazard a guess, I would say it was the very latest in THRUSH persuasion techniques," Solo replied, as he prodded at a piece of soggy lettuce. "Solve a problem for me Mark."

"If I can."

"Where are all the women?"

"You mean you don't know?" Slate asked with incredulity. "They're all in the same place my partner is right now."

"And just where is that?"

Mark grinned. "I think it's better if you see for yourself."

Napoleon followed Slate down to the large gymnasium, which was buried in the bowels of U.N.C.L.E. headquarters. Agents needed to keep themselves at the peak of fitness, though it was available for use by any member of staff. Entering the Gym, Napoleon found himself almost walking into the back of a phalanx of women. Carefully pushing his way through, he finally discovered the reason they'd been missing from the commissary, and also the whereabouts of his partner.

Napoleon couldn't deny that watching Illya Kuryakin perform on the balance beam was a lesson in agility. His movements and balance were almost cat-like as he leapt around on the beam. Dressed in black gym shorts, and a grey t-shirt, he was like catnip to the women of U.N.C.L.E. Many of them purported to be modern, emancipated women, who didn't need a man to define. Yet, put a lithe, pretty, blond Russian in front of them and they all became slaves to their natural urges. Of course, they would only say they were behaving the same way as men around beautiful women.

"How long has this been going on?" Napoleon asked Mark.

The CEA was fully aware that Illya often trained in the Gym, but he was quite surprised to find an audience. Then again, for all he argued otherwise, Kuryakin was quite the show-off when given half a chance. He also knew exactly what feelings he stirred in those who were attracted to him, and wasn't above playing on it.

"This quite often happens when Illya spends a few days at HQ," Mark explained. "As soon as they all get wind of it, his training becomes a spectator sport. I'm surprised you didn't know."

"How come you do?"

The Brit pointed over to where April was sitting. It was clear from her body language and facial expression that she was very much enjoying the show. As Illya dismounted, and offered them a small bow, she was instantly on her feet, applauding along with the other women.

"It isn't fair, Mark," Napoleon complained as he headed back towards his office. "I have to put some serious effort into courting the ladies. He just had to bounce around in his shorts."


	28. Need to Know

When Illya had failed to turn up at their rendezvous, after the conclusion of their latest assignment, Napoleon had given him an hour before he went looking. I hadn't taken long to find the missing man. He was still in the building he was supposed to have taken the THRUSH research files from. It had been discovered that the Hierarchy were developing a new type of weapon and U.N.C.L.E. needed to know how to combat it. Napoleon located his partner, about to be interrogated, in the basement. He was hanging by his wrists from the pipes, and was stripped to the waist.

"You have two choices," stated the man in front of Illya, "Tell me what I want to know now, or I shall whip it out of you."

He unfurled the coiled bullwhip in his right hand and struck his captive across the chest. Illya gasped, twisting in his chains. The skin didn't break, but it did turned a vivid shade of pink.

"That was a taster of what you will get if you don't comply," the man, known as Jack Ryman, continued.

"Why the whip?"

The question was so unexpected, that Ryman actually took a step back. Even Napoleon, who had been about to dart the man, held back on his shot.

"What do you mean?" Ryman demanded.

"I know from personal experience that THRUSH has many methods of interrogation at its disposal," Illya explained, trying to ignore the burning in his shoulders. "Most of them are quicker and more sophisticated than the whip."

From his position at the top of the basement stairs, Napoleon had to draw on every ounce of willpower to stop himself from asking Illya what he thought he was doing. The Russian seemed to be about to recommend better techniques to break him.

"It's such a brutal instrument," Illya went on. "Yet, despite the physical effort needed by the wielder, Thrushies of your ilk seem to prefer it. Is it a fetish?"

Solo rolled his eyes. One day, Illya was going to learn that goading a torturer was not a great idea. Although, he doubted it would be any time soon.

"Just what are you accusing me of?" Ryman bellowed, bringing the whip back for another blow.

Napoleon didn't wait any longer, and darted him into a deep sleep. As Ryman fell, Solo descended the stairs and stood, with his arms folded in front of his partner.

"Are you going to help me down?" Illya asked after several silent seconds.

"Are you going to tell me what that was about?" Napoleon countered. "Why was it so important to know why he used a whip, and not something else?"

"It's something which has always intrigued me," the Russian told him. "With all the drugs, electrical devices and psychological methods they could use, why do so many of them resort to whipping?"

Releasing Illya's wrists, Napoleon quickly located his shirt, jacket and weapon, and handed them to him.

"Next time you get the urge to question a Thrushie, Tovarisch, make sure it is you who has him captive. Doing it this way around will only get you beaten to a pulp."

"Wouldn't be the first time," Illya quipped, as he headed up the stairs and out the door.


	29. Feeling Used

The assignment had been concluded with the maximum amount of success and the minimum amount of fuss. There had been very little jeopardy, no-one had been endangered, and there had been no fatalities. Even Illya had come out of it unscathed. Yet, as Napoleon toyed with the object in his hand, the fruit of their endeavours, he couldn't help but feel used.

The top team of U.N.C.L.E. New York were travelling back to headquarters and the silence in the car was palpable. Ordinarily, Illya would be quite happy that his usually chatty partner was being quiet for once, but this time was different. He could feel the disquiet emanating from the American and it didn't bode well.

"A kopek for your thoughts my friend."

Napoleon looked across to Illya and held up the object.

"What does this have to do with global security? Tell me that."

The large emerald glinted in the late evening sunlight. It was more of a forest green than an emerald green, and this is what made it worth quite a lot more than the average. That and the fact it was the size of a golf ball.

"Why did we risk our lives to retrieve this from thieves?"

"You already know the answer," Illya replied softly. "You just don't like it, so you're trying to find some other rationale."

Napoleon recognised the truth of the Russian's words. The whole thing came down to politics. The gem had been stolen form the treasury of one of the many countries which had been invited to affiliate itself with U.N.C.L.E. Having the Solo/ Kuryakin team retrieve it was meant to show how highly the country was regarded. Napoleon hated having to jump through hoops to prove themselves. As far as he was concerned, their track record was proof enough.

"Don't forget," Illya continued "The L in U.N.C.L.E. stands for law. Sometimes we are nothing more than glorified police officers. Besides, it makes a nice change to do something so straight forward and risk free. Just think of it as keeping our skills honed."

Napoleon suddenly grinned as his mood lifted.

"You're a smart Russian sometimes."

"All the time," Illya countered.

"You're right about the assignment," Solo went on, ignoring Illya's interjection. "Do you feel like getting some food?"

"All the time," Illya repeated.


	30. Fatalistic

Illya Kuryakin knew he was going to die.

He accepted this as fact every time he went on assignment. It was a survival technique he had learned very early on in his life. He had realised that if he assumed he was going to die, then he stopped worrying about his own life, which enabled his to concentrate on the task at hand. This attitude had seen him labelled as reckless on many occasions, but Illya took pride in never risking his life, or that of anyone else, needlessly.

Today, Illya Kuryakin knew he really was going to die, but what made it worse was that he wasn't even on assignment.

Only ninety minutes previously, he'd been sitting in his car on a rare day off, enjoying a Nathan's hotdog. Illya had very much embraced the availability of unnecessary foods, and the ease at which he could get them. Napoleon had once stated that there was nothing unnecessary about a Nathan's hotdog. Illya had simply smiled at the remark. He came from a place where every single morsel of food was absolutely necessary for survival. Now, an hour and a half later, the hot dog was a distant, and painful, memory. Painful because, thanks to a vicious punch to the stomach, he'd vomited it back up.

He had just finished his hotdog, when two men had jumped into his open-topped vehicle. Each held a gun to him, and the man in the passenger seat had ordered him to empty his pockets and hand over his weapon. His communicator was snapped in half, and his gun was pocketed. The other man, addressing him by name, then instructed him to drive, making sure to follow every instruction he was given.

After driving for almost ninety minutes, Illya was told to stop, and get out. As he did, he finally managed to activate the locator beacon under the dash. Hopefully, someone would now be on the way to find him. He had no doubt that whoever came would find his dead body, but at least he wouldn't be left out for the animals. As he looked around him he could see no signs of human life or habitation at all; the ideal place for an execution. Illya just wished he knew who his executors were.

The smaller of his two captors ordered him to his knees, an instruction Illya chose to ignore. This prompted the larger man to deliver a heavy blow to his gut. This had the desired effect and left Illya kneeling in the dirt and throwing up the lunch he hadn't quite had time to digest. Looking up, after his stomach had settled, he found himself staring into the business end of a THRUSH rifle. At least he now knew who was about to kill him, though he did have to wonder why they had chosen this course of action. He was more than aware that he was a highly valued prize for the hierarchy, so shooting him in cold bold seemed like a bit of an anti-climax.

"Close your eyes!" the smaller Thrushie, the one with the rifle, commanded.

Illya shook his head and resolutely kept his eyes open. He had vowed to look death in the face when it arrived.

"Just get on with it," the other man growled.

That was his mistake. It distracted his colleague just enough for Illya to reach up and wrench the rifle from his hands. He swung it around and shot the shorter man squarely in the chest. He died with an expression of absolute surprise on his face. Illya turned his attention to the other man just as he aimed his pistol. All became still for a moment as both men closely watched the trigger finger of the other. A few more seconds went by before they each judged it time to fire. Two triggers were pulled, and two men fell to ground.

…..

Illya awoke to the familiar surroundings of a hospital, though it was clear to him that he was not in medical at U.N.C.L.E. headquarters. He groaned as the pain in his skull let him know he was still living.

"Welcome back."

Turning his head to the side, Illya was greeted by the grinning form of his partner.

"Can't you even have a day off without getting into trouble?" the American asked.

"We all have our talents," the Russian quipped. "Did I get the other guy?"

"They were both dead when we got to you," Solo informed him. "You got them both cleanly in the chest. You were lucky, as the shot which hit you only grazed your head."

"Who were they?" Illya asked, wondering why his good luck was so painful. "All I know is that one of them had a THRUSH rifle."

"Preliminary investigations suggest they used to be quite high within the organisation but, thanks to you, they were demoted a very long way."

Illya was too tired to worry about Thrushies he may have upset. Besides, there were two less now. For now, his only problem was the pounding in his head.

As he drifted back to sleep, Illya Kuryakin smiled, knowing he was not going to die today.


	31. Scare Tactics

Emily Gardner was a sensible woman, but after a day telling Hallowe'en ghost stories with the other women in the secretarial pool, even she was feeling a little spooked. It probably wouldn't be such a problem if she hadn't had a telephone call from Mr Solo, asking her to locate a file from the archives.

The file archives were located deep in the bowels of U.N.C.L.E. headquarters, several floors below ground level, and were kept in darkness until someone physically turned the lights on. Emily flicked the switch and was rewarded with continued darkness. She tried a few more times, but to no avail. Cursing the name of Napoleon Solo, she went to fetch the flashlight from a maintenance locker before re-entering the archives.

Emily was already slightly peeved at Napoleon. She like him well enough, but wasn't interested in having dinner with him, even though he had asked her every day for the past week. She had to respect him for the fact he never pushed her. He simply asked, and when she said no he wished her a good day and went on his way. Emily was determined not to give in, but from what she'd heard from the other girls, it wouldn't be the worst thing to happen in her life.

As she moved between the banks of file cabinets, Emily was startled by a white shape flitting through her peripheral vision.

"Hello?" she called out, swinging the light around to where the shape had been. "Is someone else in here?"

A sudden clattering from behind her caused a strange squeal to emanate from Emily's throat. Spinning round to face the direction of the noise, she caught a glimpse of the white shape again.

"This isn't funny!" she yelled, making her way back towards the door. "I'll get security down here if you don't show yourself."

No answer was forthcoming, but a few seconds later Emily felt hot breath on the back of her neck. She screamed, dropped the flashlight and ran at full speed to the door. Bursting out into the corridor, Emily ran headlong into the arms of Napoleon Solo.

"Hey, what's wrong?" he asked, as the trembling woman hugged him tightly.

"There's something in there," she squeaked.

Napoleon carefully extracted himself from Emily's grip, and offered her a sympathetic smile.

"Why don't you go up to the commissary and get yourself a coffee. I'll go in and see what's going on, and then maybe I can tell you what's in there over dinner tonight?"

Emily said yes before her brain could intervene. Having been held in the gentle, yet powerful arms of Napoleon Solo, she had experienced a little of what the other girls had told her about. Maybe one date wouldn't be so bad after all.

After seeing her onto the elevator, Napoleon opened the door to the archives.

"Come out," he commanded.

From behind a cabinet, Illya Kuryakin stepped out, carrying a white sheet.

"Did it work?" he asked.

"Like a charm," Solo told him.

"Remind me never to utter the words 'I owe you' ever again," the Russian said, as he thrust the sheet at his partner. "If you have to scare a woman into a date, then she isn't for you."


	32. A Taste of Home

Illya stepped into his apartment and locked the door behind him. He leaned against the wood, closed his eyes and let go a long deep sigh; alone at last. His arrival home would have been half an hour ago, if he hadn't had to go shopping to gather the things he was going to need. He placed his bag full of purchases on the coffee table and unpacked each one.

First came the borscht, followed by the pirozhki* and pelmeni*. After this came shaslyk*, blini and a portion of syrniki*, with sour cream and honey. Illya carefully arranged the food on the table, before going into the kitchen for a plate and some cutlery. He also extracted his vodka from the freezer, but didn't get a glass. He wasn't in the mood for small measures. All these items were put onto the table, which left him with only two more things to do before he was ready to eat.

The first of these was music. Illya decided to forgo on his beloved jazz and chose instead to listen to Stravinsky. As the music filled the apartment, he went into his bedroom to fetch the finishing touch. It was something he was very aware would cause him issues if were ever to be seen. Instead, Illya kept it hidden, apart from at times such as this. The little red flag on a stand wasn't much bigger than the palm of his hand, but as he unfurled it and revealed the hammer and sickle, his breath caught in his throat.

Despite what many people seemed to assume, Illya Kuryakin was not a defector. He was a loyal Soviet citizen, though he had to admit that he preferred his life in the west. Every so often, however, Illya longed for his homeland. There was nothing and no-one there for him, but that didn't stop him from missing it.

Sitting down, Illya cracked the top open on the vodka and raised the bottle to sky.

"Doma. (_home_)"

He took a long slug of the vodka before he was faced with the decision of what to have first.

_*Pirozhki – Baked stuffed buns  
Pelmeni – Filled dumplings  
Shashlyk – A form of shish kebab  
Syrniki – Fried Curd Fritters_


	33. Annoying Russian

Napoleon was aware that he was late but, given that he and Illya didn't need to be at the airport for another two hours, he didn't feel the need to rush. To be honest, the less time he spent around his new Russian partner the happier he was. There was no denying that the man was brilliant and efficient, but he was just so cold and aloof. It jarred against his own outgoing and gregarious personality. When you got right down to it, Illya Kuryakin was annoying.

The whole Soviet issue didn't really concern Napoleon. Admittedly, it had initially been a problem, but he figured that if Waverly trusted the man not to be a Kremlin spy, then that was good enough for him. The problem was, the new partnership didn't seem to gel. Napoleon needed to know that Kuryakin had his back, but there was something about the quiet and reserved blond which made him think he might not.

As he pulled up in front of Illya's building, Napoleon couldn't fail to notice him check his watch.

"You're late," Illya stated pointedly, as he got into the car.

"Don't get your panties in a bunch," Solo replied, equally as pointedly. "We've got more than enough time."

Illya rolled his eyes. Of all the things which annoyed Napoleon about Kuryakin, and there were many, the eye roll was the worst. This partnership definitely wasn't going to stay the course. All good teams had to have a closeness. It was necessary to be able to read the other's body language and to anticipate their next move. Napoleon simply couldn't see that closeness developing between the two of them. He vowed to himself that he would appeal to Mr Waverly as soon as they returned from the mission and have Illya reassigned.

Five years later

Illya was not a good colour. Nobody living should be that shade of grey, yet he was still clinging to life. Sitting by the injured agent's bedside, Napoleon thought back to the events which had brought him to medical.

He knew he was to blame. If he hadn't been flirting with the waitress, he would have seen the THRUSH gunman himself. Instead, Illya's sixth sense had picked up on the man's presence and, having no time to draw his own weapon, had thrown himself in front of Napoleon. If it hadn't been for him, Napoleon would be dead. Not for the first time either. He suddenly laughed, causing the nurse give him a strange look. Completely unbidden, the memory of a day five years previously had come to mind.

Napoleon had tried every tactic he knew to get Illya taken off his hands, but Waverly would have none of it. The chief was apparently convinced they would make an effective team. As it turned out, the wily old fox had been right. The two men were not only the best team in U.N.C.L.E. history, but had formed an exceptionally strong friendship. Okay, so Illya still annoyed the hell out of him at times, but he always preferred to have him in the field with him than without.

"Come on you annoyingly stubborn Russian," he coaxed, as he saw Illya's eyelids flickering. "I need someone I really trust to have my back."


	34. Dead Man's Switch

Slamming the door behind them, Napoleon Solo and Illya Kuryakin dragged a heavy cabinet in front of the door. The task was made a lot harder by the injury the senior partner had sustained during their capture.

The two men had been exploring a THRUSH electronics facility when they were happened upon by a heavily armed patrol of six men. The U.N.C.L.E. agents put up a good fight, but Solo had ended up with a bullet in his right thigh. It would have gone a lot worse for the pair if the facilities commander hadn't arrived and recognised them both. It was a strange quirk that their notoriety almost guaranteed their extended survival when caught.

They'd been thrown into a cell, causing Illya to wonder why THRUSH always seemed to have one readily available, to be dealt with later. Naturally, as soon as their captors departed, Illya had immediately set to work on their escape. They had, of course, been divested of all their equipment, but the Russian always had a lock pick about his person. On this occasion it was secreted in the tip of his belt. Within minutes, the two of them were back out of the cell, but Napoleon's gunshot wound was bleeding too quickly for comfort and he was beginning to flag already. Without weapons, and having a wounded partner to help, Illya knew the likelihood of getting out was slim; and so it proved to be.

They had been making their away along quite a lengthy corridor when two guards round the corner. Knowing Napoleon was in no state to fight, and realising they wouldn't have time to get back along the corridor, Illya open the nearest door and they both darted in.

"Well, that could have gone better," mumbled Napoleon, as the last of his strength left him and he slumped to the floor.

Illya looked around the windowless room and took stock of their dire situation. The small room seemed to be a store for electrical spare parts, and the only way out was through the door which was currently being pounded on by the guards. In a flash, an idea came to mind.

Ten minutes later, the two guards were still trying to get through the barricaded door. They were interrupted in their endeavours by their commander, Lucille Payne.

"What is going on?" she demanded, her green eyes flashing with pure anger.

"The prisoners escaped, Ma'am," one of the guards replied. "They trapped themselves in here."

Before Miss Payne could voice her opinions on the incompetence of her subordinates, her attention was taken by the sound of Illya Kuryakin calling out his surrender.

"Move away from the door and we'll come out."

Inside the room, Illya moved the cabinet out of the way. He then picked Napoleon up and, with a grunt, slung him over his shoulder.

"You really need to cut down on all that fancy food you love too much," he muttered.

Finally, he picked up a white, stubby cylindrical object, which was about the size of his palm. On it was a set of flashing lights and a switch. He held it out in front of him and stepped out of the room.

"Come anywhere near us and I'll activate the switch on this device," he stated.

The calmness of his tone sent a shiver down the spines of the two guards.

"You can't have made a bomb out of the things in there," one of them challenged.

Miss Payne held her hand up to silence the man.

"You'll blow yourself and your friend up also," she told him.

"That's true," Illya conceded. "But I speak for both of us when I say we'd rather die by my hand, than by yours. Oh, and if you think you can just shoot me before I can do anything, kindly note that my thumb is on a dead man's switch. If the contact is lost, then the device does what it was designed to do."

"Let them go," Miss Payne commanded the guards. "Follow them to make sure they aren't impeded, and don't try anything stupid."

Hanging over Illya's shoulder, Napoleon had returned to consciousness in time to hear Illya issue his threat. He decided it was more prudent to act as though he were still insensible, and didn't say anything until Illya had them in the car and driving away from the facility.

"Where did you get a bomb?" he queried, groggily.

"I haven't got a bomb," Illya replied simply.

"So what exactly is that object designed to do if you take your thumb off the switch?"

"The flashing lights stop flashing."


	35. Sweet Suite

"You really didn't need to come with me," Illya protested, for what was probably the twentieth time. "I'm fairly certain I am able to by a couch on my own."

"As I've already told you," replied Napoleon, as the two men entered the large furniture store. "I know the guy that owns this place."

They were greeted just inside the entrance by a crimson suited Stanley Crabbe, who pulled Napoleon into a tight embrace. The move caused an eyebrow to rise slightly on Illya's face.

"It's great to see you Napoleon," Stanley enthused, shifting from the hug to a warm handshake. "It must be, what . . .?"

"Three weeks, Stan," Solo told him, with a laugh. "At Johnny's wedding."

"Oh yeah," said Stan, as the memory came back. "To be honest, I was already tight when I got there. Anyway, have you started adopting strays?"

Napoleon looked to his partner, who had wandered off. He was wearing his usual black and his hair seemed a little scruffier than usual.

"That's my colleague, Illya. He needs a new couch."

Stanley narrowed his eyes and was suddenly on edge. "A Russian?" he asked.

"Yes, but you needn't worry."

"Okay Pal, if you trust him, then so do I. Feel free to look around. We've just opened a new novelty department at the back."

For the next thirty minutes, they inspected every couch they found, with Illya finding fault with every single one. If it wasn't the colour, it was the size, or the cost. As they stepped through to the novelty department, both men audibly gasped. There were several couches, and each one was a large representation on some sort of confectionary. There were a few which looked like chocolate bars, some which were stylised cookies, and many which appeared to be very large cakes. The one which really caught their attention was a hideous version of a cake. The upholstery was pink leather, to look like icing, but it was the pouf which really riveted them. It pulled out from the main body of the couch as though someone had cut a slice.

"What do you think?" Napoleon asked, not daring to meet his partner's eye. "You could almost break a bit off and nibble on it."

"I think," Illya started, eventually. "That the ones we've already seen suddenly don't seem so bad."

After the shock of the novelty couches, Illya was able to choose a standard one he could live with. He decided on a large brown leather one which would fit nicely in his apartment.

"You've made an excellent choice," Stanley told him. "And as well as free delivery, I can offer you a seventy-five percent discount."

"Seventy-five?" Illya queried. "I am grateful for your friends and family rate, but that seems somewhat excessive."

"This isn't the friends and family rate," Stan explained. "This is the 'friends of the man who saved my life in Korea, three times, rate'."

"He's good at that," Kuryakin replied, leaving Stanley to wonder what he meant.


	36. The Eyes Have It

"Have you heard the news?"

Illya look up from his typewriter. He could tell by the grim expression on his partner's face that the news he had wasn't good.

"What's happened?"

"The body of Jim Barton was fished out of the Potomac this morning," Napoleon told him.

Illya frowned. Barton was a good agent, who had been missing for two days. When contact with an agent was lost, the others always told themselves it was because he was simply unable to be contacted, or to make contact. They never believed anyone dead until proved otherwise.

"I take it his cover was blown," Illya commented. "Did he manage to get any information out to us?"

"No," Solo replied. "Waverly is calling a meeting tomorrow afternoon to discuss a new strategy."

Barton had been undercover with THRUSH, in one of their research and development labs, trying to get an insight on the latest in THRUSH technology. He'd been there for seven days before contact was lost, but had been unable to glean anything useful.

"Did he have any family?" asked Illya.

"No. His parents are both dead and he was an only child," Solo replied. "It'll be another U.N.C.L.E. funeral. Anyway, I'm done for the day. Fancy a drink?"

Illya looked down at his report and decided it could wait.

….

The following morning, Napoleon was exceedingly grateful that he had the morning off. As usual when he and Illya went out for a drink, it had turned into a competition, which he had lost. He vowed that he would one day learn how the small statured man could drink so much more than him. Groaning loudly, as his pounding head reminded him of the previous evening, Napoleon glanced over to his bedside clock. He was very surprised to see that it was already 11:30. Illya would be arriving any minute to pick him up. Sure enough, he heard his partner coming into the apartment, and calling out his name.

"I'll be right out," he called, and immediately regretted the volume.

Napoleon rolled out of bed and, not bothering to put his robe on over his pyjamas, he went to join Illya.

He found him in the kitchen making coffee. Annoyingly, he looked as fresh as a daisy.

"Good morning, Napoleon," the Russian greeted, in a deliberately cheery tone. "I've brought up your mail."

Solo picked up the pile of letters and shuffled through them. One caught his attention immediately, as it was addressed to Nathaniel Singleton. This was a pseudonym Napoleon often used, but any mail for that name went straight to special address owned by U.N.C.L.E. He opened it and was surprised to find a photograph of the smiling face of Jim Barton. Turning it over, he found a short note.

_Hi,_

_I'll be going away for some time.__Look into my eyes and you will see why._

_Jim_

"What do you make of this?" he asked Illya, handing him the photograph.

Illya fished a small magnifying glass from his pocket and peered closely at the image.

"The pupil of the left eye looks a strange," he finally said. "I think something is coded into the image. Remember how THRUSH coded their five year plan into the pattern of that dress?"

Napoleon suddenly felt very sober.

"Give me ten minutes to get ready. We need to get this to HQ."

…

Several hours later, Solo ad Kuryakin were summoned to Mr Waverly's office. He gestured for them to sit down before he turned the lights off, and switched on the projector. A super-enlarged version of the left eye in the photograph was presented to them. At this size it was clear to see the unnatural pattern of the iris.

"It would seem that Mr Barton used THRUSH's own technology to create this image," he informed the two men. "Whilst it gives us no information on any technologies in development, it does give us the names and addresses of several key operatives."

"Surely, given that they discovered him, the operatives mentioned will have moved elsewhere by now."

"We're working on the assumption that they only discovered who he was, and not what he managed to do," Waverly explained. "We'll be putting long term surveillance on all of the addresses and the operatives. In the meantime I want you to start building dossiers on each operative. Let's take full advantage of Mr Barton's gift to us."

"Yes Sir," both agents replied.


	37. Thankful Non-Americans

Illya squinted against the golden, early morning sunlight and yawned himself into full wakefulness. It took him a few seconds to remember he had gone to sleep in the back of Mark Slate's car.

"It's morning," he mumbled, stating the obvious.

"There's no flies on you, mate," Mark replied. "How are you feeling this morning?"

"As I said last night, I'm fine," the Russian replied, a little too tersely. "Have you driven non-stop all night?"

"Yep," Slate answered. "You took quite a beating on this affair, and I think you should see a doctor. That huge goon practically wiped the floor with you. Since I know you won't agree to go to a hospital, I thought it best to get you back to HQ. We'll be there in an hour."

Illya was about to argue that he was okay, but a sudden twinge from a probably cracked rib forced him to concede Mark's point.

"At least pull over and let me get into the front."

Once they set away again, and Illya was settled in the passenger seat, the two travelled in a companionable silence for a while.

"Hey! I've just realised something," Mark blurted out, rousing Illya from a light doze. "It's Thanksgiving today."

"Neither of us is American," Illya murmured, closing his eyes again.

"You really do get grumpier when you're hurt," said Slate, with a smile. "What does it matter that we aren't American? Surely the idea of having things to be thankful for is a universal sentiment."

For the second time, Illya had to accept Mark's point while ignoring the 'grumpy' insult.

"You're right," he answered. "And let's face it, in our line of work, we have a lot to be thankful for."

"You're not wrong," the Brit agreed. "What are you thankful for?"

"You go first," Kuryakin urged.

"Okay. I suppose I'm thankful for U.N.C.L.E." he said. "It might be a bloody dangerous way of life, which will probably kill me early, but it beats anything else I could be doing. I have a brilliant partner, a couple of fantastic friends, and birds on tap."

"Birds? You mean THRUSH?"

"No," laughed Mark. "Birds as in women. Come on then, what about you?"

"I too am thankful for U.N.C.L.E., my partner and my friends," Illya told him. "Because of U.N.C.L.E. I get to see the world. I have an apartment which I don't have to share. I have relative freedom and security. Most importantly however, I have friends who I trust."

"Do you have any plans for this evening?" Mark asked him. "Once you've escaped from medical that is."

Illya told him that he didn't. Anyone he might have made plans with were spending the day with family or were on assignment.

"Great. How about you and I have our very own European Thanksgiving?"

Illya smiled.

"I can't think of anything better."


	38. Death Reaps

Three agents had died, in three separate assignments, over three consecutive days. It happened sometimes. Everything could go relatively smoothly for several months, with nothing more than the usual injuries to contend with. Then, all of a sudden, the fates seemed to realise they had neglected U.N.C.L.E. and endeavoured to make up for the oversight.

A trio of sombre men entered the large office, each dressed in black, having just attended the joint memorial service. The two younger men both took a seat on the black leather couch, while the Old Man poured out three glasses of scotch. The three all raised the glasses in a silent toast, before downing the amber liquid.

"It's been a rum do all round," Waverly commented, as he sat down in the armchair.

He looked, and felt, every second of his seventy-odd years. Napoleon Solo and Illya Kuryakin remained silent, wearing matching grim expressions. Both of them knew that death was constantly at their shoulders; always ready and always waiting. Under normal circumstances every agent acknowledged it, without dwelling on it. However, when so many agents were lost so quickly, death was something they had to stare in the face. Respect had to be given to the Reaper in the hope he wouldn't come for them just yet.

Waverly refilled the glasses and another voiceless toast was given. He believed completely in what U.N.C.L.E. stood for, and he understood sacrifices had to be made, but every death hurt him. Each loss was a victory for the other side. Mr Waverly often asserted that agents were expendable, and in the grand scheme of things, they were. This didn't stop him from keenly feeling each death, and it couldn't prevent the guilt he carried inside.

The silence was shattered by the shrill sound of the telephone. Waverly stood and crossed over to answer it. After a short exchange, he replaced the receiver.

"You two are to go the Nebraska office," he told Solo and Kuryakin. "They need some help with a THRUSH nest which has sprung up in the area. Life, it seems, goes on."


	39. The Tuxedo

Illya Kuryakin was not a fan of the tuxedo. He had no issue with dressing formally, but the tux was too much like a uniform for his liking. Despite the best efforts of his various teachers and commanding officers, there had always been a non-conformist streak in him. Even with U. .E. Illya eschewed the regulation hair length and wore the expected shirt and tie only when it suited him. Aside from the occasional pointed comment, Alexander Waverly turned a blind eye to the Russian agent's bending of the rules.

Generally, the rendezvous Illya was dressing for would fall into the hands of Napoleon Solo. Unfortunately, because a false identity was required for the meeting, it had been passed to Illya. Although Napoleon was more than competent at disguising himself, he was far too well known at the 21 Club to risk him going. Some of the female staff would know him just from the way he breathed.

Pulling on the trousers, Illya was amazed at how well they fit him. As he was playing the part of a rich playboy, an off the peg tuxedo was out of the question. Accounting had authorised one be made-to-measure by Del Floria, using the finest quality cloth. Napoleon had been rather sniffy about that. The senior agent had many tailor-made suits, but accounting had never paid for any of them up front.

After ensuring his shirt was properly tucked in, Illya reached for the black silk bow tie. He couldn't explain it, but there was something about this particular piece of neckwear which attracted him. A smile played on his lips as he imaged himself in later years, wearing such a tie on a daily basis. His daydream was interrupted by the sound of his communicator.

"Kuryakin," he stated, after assembling the device.

"Aren't you ready yet?" Solo asked, his voice tinged with annoyance.

Napoleon, for once, had been relegated to the position of chauffeur, and he wasn't too happy with it.

"I'll be with you in a few minutes," Illya calmly replied. "Maybe now you'll understand how it feels when I'm waiting for you to finish preening yourself."

"I don't preen," Napoleon snapped, before cutting the connection.

Illya couldn't help the grin which appeared on his face. Solo was his partner, and close friend, but he enjoyed seeing the man brought down a peg or two every so often.

Sliding his arms into the jacket of the tuxedo, he was impressed again at the perfection of the garment. It fit him like a glove. Most of the jackets he owned were his general shape and size but they did nothing to emphasise him as a whole. This one accentuated his slim hips and athletic body and, for the first time, Illya understood what Napoleon meant when he said a well-tailored suit was more than an expensive garment.

The last thing he had to do, before filling his pockets with anything he may need, was to fasten on his ankle holster. His jacket fit so well that it was thought a shoulder holster might show up to anyone looking for it.

Just as he was about to step out of the changing room, Illya took one last look at himself. He smiled as he imaged the face napoleon would pull when he saw him.  
Tuxedo


	40. Don't Judge a Book By its Cover

Alexander Waverly had a personal bathroom just outside his office, but there were times when he was in another part of the building and he would utilise the nearest facilities. He tried to avoid it when he could, because it seemed to unnerve agents and staff alike when they found him using their bathroom, but sometimes it gave him an insight to how people were thinking. That morning had been one of those mornings.

Waverly had been taking care of 'business' when he had heard the voices of Colin Kendall and Phil Kirkwood. They were both Section 3, and from their conversation, the Old Man learned that they had a problem with a particular Section 2 agent.

"I heard Kuryakin had to be rescued again," Kendall commented. "That's three times he's been captured this month."

"What do expect from a Commie," replied Kirkwood. "He probably surrendered each time and offered to sell our secrets."

"I don't know what Waverly was thinking bringing the Ruskie in," the first man continued. "He's a dangerous liability if you ask me."

Flushing the lavatory, Mr Waverly stepped out of the cubicle.

"I don't remember asking you, Mr Kendall." He stated, with anger etched in his voice. "I shall expect both of you in my office at 1 pm."

With that, Waverly washed his hands and left the two men standing open-mouthed.

At the appointed time, Kendall and Kirkwood stood in front of Waverly's desk, feeling very much like to schoolboys before the principal. The chief himself was studiously ignoring the two men in order to make them sweat. To say he was in a black mood was an understatement of epic proportions. Eventually he laid down his pen and looked up.

"You are of the opinion that Mr Kuryakin should not be an agent with U.N.C.L.E."

It wasn't a question, and both men shuffled uncomfortably under their boss's steely glare.

"What brings you to this conclusion?" he asked. "And if either one of you mention his nationality, you will both be relocated to Antarctica."

"Well, . . . " began Kirkwood. "He erm . . ."

"Spit it out man!"

"He does seem to get captured a lot."

"Indeed," Waverly agreed. "But what makes you think that it is down to incompetence, or treachery? Are you privy to the details of the affairs?"

"No Sir," the two mumbled in unison.

"Not that it is any of your business, but allow me to enlighten you to a few things. Take a seat and you will learn something."

Kirkwood and Kendall hurriedly sat down, neither of them able to look Waverly in the eye.

"Firstly, it is correct that Mr Kuryakin has been taken prisoner three times in the last month," the Old Man told them. "However, on two of those occasions, it was a deliberate act on his part. He finds it quicker and easier to have the enemy take him to where he needs to be, whereupon he escapes his bonds and completes the mission. His rescues were part of Mr Solo's secondary strategy. Solo provided a decoy to allow Kuryakin to do his job, and was also a back-up in the event his partner was unable to escape.

On the third occasion, Solo and Kuryakin were extracting a defector from THRUSH and Kuryakin allowed himself to be taken to give Mr Solo and the defector time to get away. So you see, gentlemen, you would do well not to comment on things for which you have no knowledge. On this occasion I shall not be issuing a reprimand, but if I hear of you denigrating anyone again your positions here will be in question. Do I make myself clear?"

"Yes Sir."

"Very well. Please don't let me detain you."

As they left, they were passed in the doorway by Napoleon and Illya. Neither of them acknowledged the senior team.

"Trouble Sir?" Solo asked as he sat down.

"Not anymore," Waverly replied.


	41. The Art of Torture

Illya had a pallid complexion at the best of times, but after being held underground for the best part of a week he was positively ghostly. As he looked in the mirror of his medical room bathroom, Illya had to admit that the paleness of is skin made an almost beautiful contrast to the angry red welts and multi-hued bruises across his torso. They were all the results of several sustained beatings, which surprisingly hadn't led to any broken bones. Thankfully, because of this, he had only spent one night in medical and was preparing to go home.

The Russian had decided to freshen up before he left, but had been captivated by his injuries. It wasn't the first time he'd been left with such marks, after all, his body still bore the white scars of previous tortures, but the way they stood out against his pale flesh gave him pause. Illya couldn't help but admire the beauty of colours. The bruises, because they were at different stages of development, ranged from black to yellow to blue and also purple. It was as though his body had provided the canvas for some avant-garde artist. The welts, caused by various implements were in many wonderful shades of red and pink, and were laid out in quite an attractive pattern. They criss-crossed in a way which was quite pleasing to the eye.

Admittedly, his whole torso felt as though it was on fire, but compared to the beauty of the marks the pain was insignificant. The thought came to him that he really ought to feel angry at being used as a 'punching bag' by yet another THRUSH megalomaniac, but he honestly didn't. Illya had reached the point of acceptance long ago. If his suffering kept one innocent safe, the he was more than willing to endure it. One day, it would lead to his death, but that was a price he had always known he would pay eventually.

"Are you in here, Tovarish?'

Napoleon's voice brought him back to the present.

"I'm in the bathroom," he answered. "You don't need to drive me home. I'm not that badly hurt."

"It's not a problem," Solo told him. "I thought could buy you one of the lunches I owe you on the way."

Illya came back into the room, buttoning up his shirt.

"Is a week of torture all it takes to get back what is owed to me?" he said, with mock surprise.

"I thought you'd be already be out of here," Napoleon commented, ignoring Illya's snarky remark. "The doc said he signed you out half an hour ago."

"I was . . ." Kuryakin began. "Well, it doesn't really matter. I'm ready now."

"You were what?" the American asked, intrigued by the strange way his partner had stopped himself.

"Fine, if you must know, I was looking at the marks and bruises on my body. "Illya confessed. "I thought thy looked quite artistic."

"How many times were you hit over the head?"

"I cannot fully explain it, my friend. It was something which struck me as I looked in the mirror. Did you not say something about lunch?"

Napoleon smiled. He would never admit it, but there had been times when the same thoughts had come to him. At least now he knew he wasn't going mad.

"Come on then, Tovarisch. There's a large amount of food somewhere awaiting your attention."


	42. A Stuck Little Piggy

Illya knocked impatiently on the bathroom door of the hotel room he was sharing with Napoleon.

"Hurry up!" he called out. "Our flight back to New York leaves in an hour and a half."

Solo, who had been happily lying in the tub, jumped at the sound of Illya knocking. The big toe, which he had been merrily poking in and out of the faucet, slid farther up and instantly jammed. He pulled frantically, knowing he was probably causing it to swell, but also knowing he couldn't let Illya know.

"Napoleon!"

"Be out in a minute," Solo replied.

On the other side of the door, Illya frowned. Napoleon was using his 'I'm lying about everything being fine' voice.

"What's going on," he asked, only to be greeted with silence. "Okay, cover yourself up, I'm coming in."

Napoleon barely had time to grab a towel and cover his modesty before Illya opened the door. The Russian took in the scene before him and glared at his partner. At least, he tried to glare, but the look of humiliation on Napoleon's face caused his steely resolve to melt. He laughed for a full two minutes before he was able to garner a little composure.

"I believe this would be the jurisdiction of the Fire Department," he managed to say before another wave of laughter assaulted him.

"No-one but you are I will know of this," Napoleon growled. "Quit laughing and give me a hand will you."

Illya grabbed hold of his partner's foot and tried to pull it free, but only succeeded in making the toe swell even more.

"Wait there," he said after a couple of minutes, leaving Napoleon to wonder where exactly he could go.

He disappeared out of the bathroom, returning quite quickly with a tub of Vaseline.

"I won't ask what you're doing with that," Napoleon quipped, trying to take some of the embarrassment away from himself.

"I got it from your suitcase," Illya commented as he liberally smeared the substance onto Napoleon's toe.

Solo opted not to say anything in response to the implication in Illya's tone, choosing instead to concentrate on wiggling his toe free. A few moments later his trapped digit plopped free.

"If you're not ready in ten minutes," Illya began. "The whole of HQ is going to know of your little predicament."

"You wouldn't," Napoleon yelled at the door his partner had closed on his way out of the bathroom. "Illya?"

"ILLYA!"


	43. Italian Rescuer

Napoleon leant heavily against the fence of the homestead, trying to get his breath back and to stop his lungs from burning. It was the first building of any sort that they'd seen for miles. He and Illya had been running for almost fifteen minutes and, even though he was a fit man, sustained running was something he hadn't done for a long time. Besides, his shoes and suit weren't exactly the right attire for sprinting.

"Napoleon," Illya called back to him. "We have to keep moving if we're going to make it to the train station on time."

"Can't we . . . catch . . . the one after," Solo gasped.

"Certainly. I'm sure Mr Waverly won't mind if we're two days late."

The pair had successfully cleared and destroyed a minor satrapy which was at least a day's travel from the nearest town. Unfortunately, their vehicle irreparably broke down on their way back and Mr Waverly had flat-out refused to send out a helicopter for them. He told them someone would get back to them with an alternative solution. Sure enough, a few minutes later, Wanda informed them that there was a train station five miles west of their position and the next train was due thirty-five minutes. If they missed it, there wouldn't be another for two days. The two men had been less than overjoyed at the idea of running five miles in thirty minutes.

"I'm prepared to . . . take the heat for being late," Napoleon told him.

Straightening up, he gasped as his back reminded him that he shouldn't have stopped moving.

"How come you don't seem as exhausted as me?" he asked Illya, who was panting slightly, but not struggling for breath in the same way he was.

"Because, when you're out every night with various women, I spend time keeping myself fit. Before you try to make a remark about getting your exercise in other ways, there's something over there which might aid our speed."

Napoleon looked over to where Illya was pointing. At first he couldn't see it, but then his eyes fell on an object with brought joy to his pounding heart. Nestled inside a ramshackle outhouse was an Italian moped. It wasn't the sort of thing you'd expect to find in the American mid-west, but it was definitely a sight for sore eyes.

"Let's see if the owner is home."

As it turned out, there was no-one about. Napoleon left a few dollars, which he'd had to borrow from Illya, and a note to say the moped could be found at the train station. He then insisted on controlling the machine, relegating his partner to the pillion seat.

The moped turned out to be a godsend. The agents made it to the station with about thirty seconds to spare. They parked up and jumped onto the train just before it began to pull away.

"You seem happy, my friend," Illya commented, when he noticed a strange smile on the American's face.

"That moped reminded me of our first mission together in Rome," he told the Russian. "I quite enjoyed riding one then, and I got the same feeling today."

"Then maybe you should get one."

"I don't think so," Solo replied. "They don't really go with my suits."


	44. Hell Did Freeze

The cellar was cold and damp, and after two and a bit days Napoleon and Illya had had more than enough of being locked up in it. They'd been taken unawares while heading out for a double date and Napoleon wasn't looking forward to facing the girls they had unexpectedly stood up. It had taken him two months to get a date with Michaela and she'd only agreed if he provided a date for her friend.

The agents had been divested of their clothes and equipment but had, thankfully, been supplied with coveralls. Over the years the pair had been stripped naked more times than they cared to recall. During the two days they had been trapped, both men had scoured the small cellar thoroughly for any means of escape. Unfortunately, there was only one door, and there were no windows or drains either. The only light came through barred aperture at the top of the door. Twice a day food and water was brought in by two guards who ordered them to stand well away from the door, and remain silent. There was no indication whatsoever as to who had taken them, or why.

The fourth time the door opened, Napoleon risked speaking. He asked if there was a possibility of ever leaving the cellar.

"Maybe when hell freezes over," was his only reply.

After the door closed, Napoleon picked up what had been left.

"It looks like sandwiches again," he told Illya. "Do you want the cheese, or the, erm, cheese?"

The question was met with a distracted silence.

"Illya? Do you want this? Illya?"

"When hell freezes over," Kuryakin echoed the guard's words.

"They aren't that bad, and I've seen you eat worse,"

Illya finally made eye contact with his partner. "What?"

"Sandwich?"

The Russian took the food and sat down. A minute or so later, Napoleon realised he hadn't actually started eating.

"Okay, Tovarisch, what gives?" he prompted. "What is it about the words 'when hell freezes over'?"

Illya said nothing for a while, but Solo simply waited.

"I spent a lot of my childhood in hell," Illya said eventually. "Half of the time it was, indeed, frozen. Russian winters are harsh, and when you're a skinny child with barely any winter clothing and very little food, they are even harsher. My babushka was killed by such a winter because she gave her food to us children and her shawls to my sisters. After my family were taken by the Nazis, I was placed in a state orphanage. I got a little more to eat, but heat was an expensive luxury. For me, hell has already been frozen over, therefore I'm leaving this cellar."

"That's a wonderful sentiment, Illya, but short of rushing the guards and risking being shot, there isn't much we can do."

"Then that's what we do," Illya told him, with a steely resolve.

Napoleon studied the expression on his partner's face and knew there would be no talking him round. Though, when he really thought about it, he was too was tired of waiting for answers. It was better to die trying to escape, than to await fate's arrival. As they'd already had two visits that day, they would have to wait until the next day to make their attempt.

The next time the guards arrived, the two agents did as instructed and stood away from the door. The guard with the gun entered first, followed by the one bearing the tray. As he bent to put his load on the floor, Illya dived towards him. His attack caused enough of a distraction for Napoleon to take on the armed man.

It took very little time for Solo and Kuryakin to subdue the guards and make their escape, and when they emerged from the building, they were very surprised to find they were in downtown Manhattan.

Returning to headquarters, the two men learned that people had been searching for them since they disappeared, but there were absolutely no clues, and all attempts to trace their communicators had failed. A team was despatched to search the building in which the agents had been held, but it yielded no results;even the two guards had gone. Whoever had taken Napoleon and Illya was a complete mystery, and looked likely to remain so.


	45. Bournemouth

Lisa Rogers entered Mr Waverly's office with a cup of tea in one hand, and a stack of files in the other.

"Good Morning, Sir," she greeted her boss, placing everything on the desk in front of him. "I trust your journey in went smoothly.

"Thank you, Miss Rogers," he replied before taking a sip of tea. "It was actually rather pleasant now that the trees are starting to show the imminent arrival of spring. Have there been any developments overnight?"

"Everything is the same as it was last night," she replied. "With the exception of Mr Solo and Mr Kuryakin. They made contact with the informant in Bournemouth, England, and are heading back to New York."

As Lisa left the office, Mr Waverly leaned back in his chair, chewing thoughtfully on the end of his pipe. His mind drifted back fifty-five years, to the day he met his wife, Veronica.

_She had been promenading along Bournemouth beach front with her two sisters and her mother. Her beautiful white dress and parasol contrasted wonderfully against her jet black hair, which in turn framed her perfect porcelain skin. Alexander Waverly was smitten from that moment. For all she was dressed in white, she somehow caused the colour of the beach huts to pale into insignificance. He had to speak to her._

_Agatha Prescott was used to young soldiers pressing their attentions on her daughters, but this one seemed different. For a start he introduced himself to her before asking if he could be introduced to the younger women. This Lieutenant Waverly was a man who knew how to behave in polite society. She told him her name and introduced her daughters._

_"If I may be so bold, Madam, there is a dance at the officer's mess this evening, and I would be honoured if you would consent to my taking Miss Veronica. Of course, you are welcome to join her as her chaperone."_

_The dance had been heavenly, and many people made comment on how many times Waverly's name appeared on Miss Prescott's dance card. At that time it was deemed forward and improper for someone to dance with the same person more than three times, but Waverly didn't care. He had the most beautiful woman in his arms he was already determined she would be his wife one day._

_When their courtship began, Veronica's father had been against it, but he soon warmed to the polite and genial young man. Mr Prescott had, of course, undertaken to investigate young Waverly's background, and was happy to discover he was from fine military stock. When the day came for Alexander to seek permission to marry Veronica, Mr Prescott was more than happy to grant it. The wedding was held six months after their first meeting. They honeymooned in Bournemouth.  
_  
"Mr Waverly? Sir? Are you alright, Sir?"

Waverly looked at Miss Rogers, momentarily confused. He quickly gathered his wits.

"Ah, Miss Rogers. I was just thinking. Is there something you wanted?"

"Miss Dancer is on Channel D, Sir," she told him.

"Thank you, let's get the day started."


	46. The Play's the Thing

**The Prompt - **_May be the devil, and the devil hath power  
T' assume a pleasing shape. Yea, and perhaps  
Out of my weakness and my melancholy,  
As he is very potent with such spirits,  
Abuses me to damn me. I'll have grounds  
More relative than this. __**The play's the thing**__  
Wherein I'll catch the conscience of the king._

"The play's the thing."

"I beg your pardon sir," said Napoleon, wondering why his boss had suddenly started quoting Hamlet.

"That is the final part of the message we have received from Mr Slate," Waverly explained. "He has been tailing a known THRUSH operative with the goal of learning where an important meeting is to be held. He had to abandon his surveillance, but not before he discovered that the location will be revealed within the script of a one night play, which is being performed tonight, at the Cherry Lane Theatre in Greenwich Village. If you recall, Prince Hamlet used to play to send a message."

"That's right," Solo replied, recalling the scene. "He was telling his uncle that he knew how his father was killed."

Yes, and isn't rather apt that the play is going to inform this U.N.C.L.E.?"

"I am assuming Mr Solo and myself shall be attending the performance," stated Illya, looking up from a report he was reading.

"You are correct in your assumption, Mr Kuryakin. "Waverly confirmed. "I have sent someone to procure two tickets for you. The play begins at eight sharp."

The agents arrived at the theatre and took their seats with plenty of time to spare; each of them wearing slight disguises. Napoleon had his hair slicked back with Brylcreem, and had been fitted with tooth caps which gave him a prominent overbite. Illya had adopted a dark wig and brown contact lenses. The changes didn't dramatically alter their appearances, but would hopefully be enough for them to avoid detection. After all, there were going to be a lot of Thrushes inside the theatre.

Fifteen minutes into the performance, both men were incredibly bored. It was quite possibly one of the direst and most amateurish plays either had ever had to sit through. Unfortunately, they had to take notice of every word spoken. Illya had had the foresight to bring a recording device, but there was always the chance it could feel. As it turned out, he really needn't have worried.

Shortly after the start of the third act the lead actor launched into a painfully overacted soliloquy, in which he heavily inflected the pertinent information.

"Oh how I yearn for a FRESH MEADOW," he yelled, dropping to his knees and throwing wide his arms. "However, I fear that, like for Caesar, the IDES OF MARCH will hold some import. AS THE SUN SETS destiny shall arrive."

The second the play was over, Solo and Kuryakin left the theatre as swiftly as they dared. Once they were in their car, Napoleon contacted Mr Waverly.

"The meeting is set for the evening of March 15th at the Fresh Meadow Country Club," he told him.

"Very good Mr Solo," Waverly acknowledged. "I have another team ready and waiting to take things from here. I shall see you both in the morning."

"Goodnight, Sir."

"Fancy a late dinner?" Napoleon asked, turning to Illya.

"After sitting through that dreadful play, I need several stiff drinks," the Russian replied. "Followed by a late dinner."


	47. Reality?

Opening his eyes, and sitting himself up, he frowned with confusion. He was fairly certain that pink was not the usual colour of trees and grass. He was also convinced that there shouldn't be fish swimming around in the sky. Yet, as Illya looked around him, he could see that everyone else was carrying on as though everything was absolutely normal.

He climbed to his feet and quickly discovered that the Earth seemed to be spinning faster than he'd been used to previously. Illya closed his eyes again in an effort to gain some equilibrium. When this didn't work he decided to ask someone if they knew what was happening. This turned out to be harder than he'd thought. Not only did people dash away when he got close them, those that did speak sounded as though they were under water. Of course, given the fish above, that made a fair bit of sense.

For twenty minutes, Illya tried to garner help, but no-one seemed willing to offer assistance. He was about to give up and go somewhere else when two men approached him. Both were familiar but, try as he might, he couldn't recall anyone he knew with rabbit ears and green skin. The dark haired one spoke to him, but Illya didn't understand, though the tone seemed soothing and non-threatening. The man with the lighter hair, however, had a syringe in his hand. Illya's survival instinct kicked in and he punched the man straight in the nose.

Suddenly, Illya found himself back on the ground, with the dark haired man holding him down. As he fought against him, he felt a sharp sensation in his arm.

Almost instantly, the fish vanished from the sky, while the trees and grass returned to their usual green. Illya looked at the man holding him down, and was pleased to see normal skin and no rabbit ears.

"Napoleon?" he asked. "What are you doing?"

"I'm bringing you back to reality," Solo told him, as he helped him to his feet. "And you owe Mark an apology.

Turing around, Illya was greeted by the sight of Mark clutching his face. Blood was seeping through his fingers from his broken nose.

"What happened?" Illya asked.

"You were given an experimental THRUSH drug," Solo told him. "For some reason, you seem to be their favourite guinea pig. Anyway, we found you, and the antidote, but you got away from us. We've spent half the day looking for you."

Illya looked from Napoleon to Mark, trying to remember what had gone on that day. He remembered locating the THRUSH facility and relaying the co-ordinates to Napoleon, then everything after that was missing.

"I'm sorry Mark," he said to the Brit, who waved the apology away. He accepted that Illya hadn't been himself when he threw the punch.

"Okay children, time to get back to HQ," Napoleon announced. "I'll call ahead and book two beds in medical."


	48. An Awful Habit

April Dancer was sure she wouldn't be able to endure another day. Her torment had gone on for three days already, and if her contact didn't show up soon, she knew she would end up scratching half of her skin off.

She had managed to inveigle herself into the convent, disguised as a nun, but she hadn't realised how uncomfortable and itchy the habit and wimple would be. April somehow felt that the **loose, grey** fabric was somehow a punishment for perpetuating an untruth in a house of God. The deceit, however, was necessary. The convent, which was situated in the foothills of the Italian Alps, was visited twice a week by Father Antonio Fiore, and it was this man who April was to make contact with.

The priest was one of the many informants which U.N.C.L.E. made use of worldwide. His position within Italian society meant he was able to go almost anywhere, and a man like that often overheard things. He had long ago settled the conflict in his soul over whether or not transferring secrets was right or not. In the end, his conscience told him he was working for the good of mankind.

Father Fiore had gotten a message to U.N.C.L.E. to say he would be at the Santa Christiana convent within the next week where he would hand over details of a local THRUSH nest. Having not been given a specific day, April had no choice but to get to the convent as soon as possible.

Finally, on the morning of the fourth day, the priest arrived. He was there to take the confessional, which was where the exchange would take place. As soon as it was her turn, April knelt in the box and genuflected.

"Forgive me Father, for I have sinned," she intoned. "It's been three days since I confessed with my uncle."

The priest recognised the signal phrase instantly and pulled out a file out from under his cassock. Sliding open the hatch, he quickly passed it to April, who hid it inside the itchy habit.

Leaving the confessional, she made her outside and across the gardens to the outer wall of the convent. It took her quite some time as she had to look as though she was strolling in contemplation. Upon reaching the wall, she divested herself of the punishing garment, before climbing a tree and scrambling over the old stonework. In the bushes at the other side it didn't take April long to find the bag of clothes she'd hidden there a few days before. As she slipped into a wonderfully soft, white cotton dress she sighed contentedly. Quietly, she vowed to herself that, next time, darling Mark could be the nun.


	49. The Sly Russian

It was Illya's first day back at HQ following a week and a half of sick leave. He had taken a bullet to his upper thigh, and had only been allowed out of medical after two days on the promise he wouldn't show his face at work for at least two weeks. Naturally, Illya was bored after just two days. He endured six days of being trapped in his apartment before he was on the phone begging to be allowed light duties. Dr Barrie didn't have the strength to deal with the Russian's constant calls, and after two days he relented. Illya was allowed back, but wasn't permitted to do anything more strenuous than paperwork.

Knowing that driving would be difficult for him, Napoleon had volunteered to drive Illya to work and was surprised at how easily he was walking. The Russian had a slight limp, but you'd only see it if you were looking for it. Solo remembered having a similar injury himself and had it had taken a month for his gait to normalise. As they walked through the corridors of U.N.C.L.E. Napoleon noticed that Illya's seemed to become much more **pronounced** whenever they passed groups of women.

Nothing about Illya's demeanour called out to the ladies, but they all looked at him with absolute sympathy. If anything, Illya's body language was pretty much saying what it usually did, 'don't bother, I'm not interested'.

When they reached their office, Napoleon waited until his partner was comfortable before confronting him with an accusation.

"You, Illya Nikovich Kuryakin, are a fraud!"

Illya peered at him through the **yellow**-tinted glasses he had just put on.

"What are you talking about?" he asked, showing no emotion.

"As if you don't know," Solo stated. "You're deliberately playing on your injury to elicit sympathy from the ladies. And you're always saying you have no interest in dating the girls here."

Illya tried not to smile, but he couldn't stop himself.

"As an agent, I do what I must to get what I need," Illya told the American. "But, it isn't for dating purposes."

"Okay, I'll bite. What are you up to?"

"Well, if the ladies think I can't get to the commissary without pain, they'll bring tea and food to me."

Napoleon's laugh was loud and explosive.

"You're one sly Russian, Tovarisch."


	50. A Wild Gull Chase

For three days, Napoleon and Illya had been waiting for their contact to put in an appearance. They hadn't been given a specific date or time, only being told the person's name and the fact he would be there sometime over the next week. The pair had taken a room in beachside guest house, close to the area of the rendezvous, and were taking turns to sleep. Illya woke on the morning of the third day to find Napoleon in his usual spot by the window.

"I take it there have been no developments," he mumbled, as he climbed out of bed.

"Not unless you count the arrival of a huge flock of seagulls."

Illya disappeared into the bathroom to shower and dress, and when he returned, Napoleon was watching the gulls through binoculars.

"I know you're bored, but surely seagulls aren't that interesting."

"They seem to be concentrating on one small part of the beach," Solo told him. "It's weird."

"It is probably just carrion," Illya replied. "A seal or something, washed up onto the shore."

"You're probably right," agreed Napoleon. "Although . . ."

"Although, what?" Illya prompted after several seconds.

Napoleon handed the binoculars to his partner.

"Correct me if I'm wrong," he said. "But does that look like a human figure to you?"

Illya looked to where the largest amount of seagulls was concentrated and had to agree with Napoleon. Whatever the gulls were picking at, it definitely looked more like a man than a seal.

Within minutes the two agents were running down the beach, fending of seagulls.

"I feel like Tippi Hedren," Napoleon called out, as he flapped at them.

"Who?"

"You know, from that movie last year. The Birds."

"I didn't see it," Illya yelled back, struggling to be heard over the noise of the birds. "And if it is anything like this, I don't intend too."

As they got closer to the figure, it became more and more obvious that is was, indeed, a man. At least, it used to be. From the looks of things, he'd been in the water a couple of days, and the bullet-hole in his skull suggested that he hadn't drowned.

"You'd better see if there is any ID," Napoleon ordered, trying not to grimace at what the gulls had left of the guy's face.

"Why me?" Illya asked. "Are you about to pull rank on me again?"

"It does have its privileges."

Cursing in his native tongue, Illya searched the pockets of the corpse, and found a soggy wallet. Opening it carefully, he was rewarded with a driver's licence. It bore the name 'Henry Butterman'.

"Our contact," Illya informed his partner. "At least this means we can get back to New York."

"Butterman apparently had information pertaining to at least three North American satrapies," Napoleon said, rubbing his face. "I really don't want to break this news to Waverly. I don't suppose you would call him, Tovarisch."

"Ah, my friend," Illya replied. "That is where not having the higher rank has the advantage. This is a job for the senior agent."


	51. Misdiagnosis

Napoleon knew he had a reputation for being late on occasion. He also knew that it was usually his partner who was waiting for his arrival. Such was the case as he sped along the highway towards the designated rendezvous point. This time though, it really wasn't his fault.

As soon as Illya had called to say he had completed the assignment, Napoleon had set off to collect him. It should only take ten minutes for Solo to get from the motel to the beach, but a small mishap resulted in a hold up.

The large white dog had seemingly come out of nowhere, which had caused Napoleon to swerve violently. Luckily, he hadn't been going at a high speed, which meant the crash with the police vehicle hadn't resulted in much too damage. Unfortunately, the officers hadn't seen the loose dog. If it hadn't been for several passers-by, who had witnessed the whole thing, Napoleon would have been arrested for reckless driving. By the time the matter was sorted, he was already ten minutes late.

When Solo finally made to the meeting point, he couldn't immediately see Illya. A few seconds later, his heart almost stopped when he spotted a prone figure lying in the sand. The blond hair, which was moving with the breeze, instantly identified the figure as Illya. Napoleon thought make to the communicator conversation he'd had with his partner half an hour earlier. The Russian had said his assignment was completed successfully, but had made no mention of being injured. Someone must have followed him and attacked him.

Napoleon broke into a run, all the time pleading with the almighty to keep Illya alive. Dropping to his knees, he checked for injuries and signs of bleeding, but found nothing.

"What are you doing?"

Illya had opened his eyes and was surprised to find his partner prodding at his torso.

"I'm checking you for injuries?"

"Why?"

Napoleon stared at Illya as though he had two heads.

"I found you lying unconscious on the beach," he stated. "What was I meant to think?"

"You found me asleep you blockhead. It's a warm day, so I thought I would bask for a while until you arrived. Honestly Napoleon! I don't get injured on every mission."


	52. A Fine Life

The sun was warm, there was a gentle breeze, and the THRUSH facility had been eliminated. As he lay the wreckage of the car he'd 'borrowed' for his escape, Napoleon Solo allowed his mind to **drift** back over his life.

All in all, he'd had a good life.

He'd been born into relative privilege and given a good education. His formative years had been almost idyllic, and were filled with seemingly endless summers. Those halcyon days ended when he had been deployed to Korea. Although, even while serving, Napoleon had managed to enjoy his life; getting his fun wherever he could find it.

With U.N.C.L.E., Napoleon had been given an exceptional opportunity to travel the world, which had also afforded him the chance to meet many exotic women. Though it wasn't just the female company he had relished. Solo was an epicurean. In his travels, he had sampled some of the finest foods, and wines, that the world had to offer. One of the very few things which annoyed him about his partner was the Russian's lack of respect for the finer things in life. Of course, he wasn't ignorant to the reasons why. The man had grown up in the Soviet Union, where food was scarce. Fancy food constituted of something with meat in it. Still, in his adult life, he was no longer starving, but often ate as though he could be in that state very soon.

Yes, Napoleon had had a good life. If the price for all that was for him to die at thirty-two, then so be it. He had lived more in those years than some eighty-five year olds had.

A loud sound from above him roused Napoleon rom his thoughts. Opening his eyes, he was greeted with sight of a large **black** helicopter. Hanging out of the chopper, he saw the familiar blond head of Illya. Napoleon smiled. It seemed he wasn't going to die after all.

Within minutes, Illya was by his siding, helping to extract Napoleon from the car.

"When I get out of medical," Napoleon began. "I'm taking you out to the finest restaurant in New York. It's time you learned to appreciate the complexities of good food."

With that, he passed out, leaving Illya to roll his eyes in exasperation.


	53. A Dangerous Mistake

For several seconds, each of which seemed to cover an eternity, no-one made a sound, nor took a breath. Illya Kuryakin stared at the arrow, which was still quivering by his head, before shifting his icy glare to the young man who was holding the bow. The four people standing around the would-be archer visibly stepped away from him. The man himself had turned a sickly shade of green, having realised what he'd almost done.

With a scary ease, Illya pulled the arrow from the wall of HQ's archery range, and strode towards his accidental assailant. He held the projectile close to the terrified man's face.

"I take it you were taught archery before you graduated Survival School."

Illya's voice was quiet and calm, but this only served to add to the fear in the room. The newly-qualified agents had been told tales of the Russian with ice in his veins, although they didn't quite believe the stories until now.

"Yes Sir," the archer squeaked.

"Name?"

"Dennis Worsley, Sir?"

"I do not appreciate having spikes of any kind fired at me," Illya stated. "But I have a particular hatred of arrows. Why were you firing away from the target?"

"Erm . . ."

"Well!"

"I . . .I was about to fire when someone spoke," Worsley explained, the words tumbling from his mouth with speed. "I turned as I fired. It was an accident, Sir."

"There is no such thing as an accident when it comes to weaponry!" Kuryakin yelled.

The sudden loudness in the room caused everyone to jump, and Illya was almost certain Worsley had just soiled himself. The Russian lowered his voice again, and leaned in close.

"You will report to Mr Solo at two o'clock," he instructed. "Where your orders to return to Survival School will be waiting. Be very grateful that I am not recommending your removal as an agent."

"Yes Sir, thank you."

"Now, everybody out!" Illya ordered. "I don't want a lot of ill-disciplined children around while I am practicing."


	54. Recruited

As she sat and stared out of the diner's window, Amber wondered if there was a point in carrying on. Over the previous two weeks her entire life seemed to have collapsed around her and she felt as though she was teetering on the edge. Being so engrossed with her thoughts, she didn't hear the man who had stopped beside her booth.

"May I buy you a coffee?" he asked again.

Amber finally looked up and found herself looking into an extremely handsome face. His dark hair perfectly matched his warm, twinkling brown eyes, and his million-watt smile was complemented by his exquisitely tailored suit, and **red** silk tie.

"No, thank you," she replied.

"Then may I join you?" he asked, sitting down before she answered.

"Why?"

"Whenever I see a beautiful young woman looking so unhappy, I feel compelled to offer assistance," he told her. "What has happened to take the smile form your face?"

Amber's first instinct was to tell the guy were he could go, but there was something about him which made her feel safe.

"My life is in ruins," she began. "Two weeks ago, my Mom died. She was the last of my family, so there's just me now. Last week, my boyfriend left me for the new girl at his office. We'd been together for three years. Then, this morning, I was passed over for promotion yet again, and the job give to a less qualified man. Out of frustration I quit on the spot. I have no money for food or rent so I'll no doubt be homeless and hungry by the end of the week."

By the end of the tale Amber was sobbing and she reluctantly accepted the red silk handkerchief of the handsome man.

"I think I can help," he told her. "The organisation I work for is always on the lookout for talented people. Here is my business card. If you're interested, call me tomorrow and I'll set you up."

After he left, Amber contemplated the card in front of her. She had no idea what this THRUSH organisation was, but if kept a roof over her head, and food on the table, she was happy to give them a chance.


	55. Devious Device

Alexander Waverly carefully picked up the object which sat on the table in front of him. It was a yellow metal sphere, slightly smaller than a soccer ball. There seemed to be something which looked like a sort of lid, but there was no obvious way of opening it. Strangely, it seemed to be weighted so that the apparent opening always stayed facing up.

"Have you been able to ascertain its exact purpose?" he asked the two men sitting opposite him.

Napoleon Solo merely shrugged and looked to his partner to provide what they knew.

"All we can say is that we don't think it poses any danger," Illya told his boss.

"But you aren't certain?"

"No Sir," Kuryakin confirmed. "Since it was delivered to Del Floria's, we have performed all the tests we can without opening it. The next step is to attempt to gain entry. This of course will be done down in the concrete sub-basements."

"I'm sure I don't need to ask you to take every precaution," Waverly commented, as he slowly turned the ball over in his hands.

"Don't worry, Sir, Mr Kuryakin is a safe pair of hands," Napoleon assured the Old Man, while throwing a wink at Illya.

Unfortunately, Solo's reassuring statement wasn't quite as accurate as he'd expected. As Waverly handed the object to the Russian, Illya fumbled slightly and it slipped from his grip. All three men watched in horror as time seemed to slow and the ball fell to floor. It only took Illya a second to recover himself, and he dived to try and catch it.

Too late, it hit the floor and rolled rapidly towards the wall. It was brought to a sudden halt by the wall and began to make the worrying sound of clockwork.

"Step away, Mr Kuryakin," Waverly instructed.

As quickly as they dared, they headed for the door. However, they weren't quite fast enough and the yellow ball opened up.

A clown doll popped out, holding a piece of card.

Napoleon edged towards the object and pulled the card free. He read it, frowned, and handed it to Mr Waverly.

"It seems to be from Victor Marton,"

_Forgive my little trick, Alexander. I was merely giving your agents a little test._

_Until next time, old friend._

_Victor._

"Well," Waverly began, after pondering the message. "I don't know what this was designed to distract us from, but it's seems we will have to be on alert."

"Yes, Sir," the two agents responded.


	56. Timing

Napoleon opened his eyes and groaned. As he pulled himself into a sitting position, he shook his head to try and clear the ringing in his ears. It was a move which he immediately regretted. Pressing his hand to his throbbing skull, Napoleon looked around at an entirely **grey **scene. Everything, from the half collapsed walls to Solo's previously black suit, was coated in a thick dust. It was all a result of the explosives his partner had set in order to destroy a small THRUSH nest.

Looking up at where the ceiling used to be, Napoleon was struck by the way the sky, which was grey with the threat of rain, matched the colour of everything around him. Then he thought that, if the roof wasn't up there, then they had been very lucky not to have been buried by it. It was only then that Napoleon realised he couldn't see Illya anywhere.

"Illya!" he called out, trying not to choke on the dust in his throat. "Tovarisch?!"

A quiet moan drew his attention to a shapeless mound close by. Looking closely, Napoleon could see the mound was breathing. Napoleon carefully picked his way over and gently rolled Illya onto his back.

"Are you okay?" he asked as two blue eyes gazed up at him.

"Da, I'm fine," Illya trotted out his stock reply.

In reality, he was experiencing a great deal of pain from his right arm. Kuryakin suspected it was broken, but that was a problem for later. Right now, he had the issue of the timer he'd set to worry about.

"Help me up," he requested, holding out his good arm.

"Something tells me another trip to medical is called for," Solo commented as he pulled Illya to his feet. "I definitely need something for this headache."

The Russian ignored him. Instead, he began to make his way to the, thankfully clear, exit. Watching him go, Napoleon noticed that he was looking a little sheepish.

"Just as a matter of interest," Napoleon said, in a conversational tone. "That seemed to be a shorter than usual five minutes."

Illya continued to remain silent.

"I mean, don't get me wrong," Solo continued. "I admire your inestimable talent when it comes to explosives, but it does seem you were a little off on the timing. It isn't like you to make such a mistake."

Kuryakin stopped and turned to face Napoleon.

"It was meant to be five minutes, I obviously miscalculated," he acknowledged. "You're never going to let me forget this are you?"

"You wound me, partner mine," Napoleon gasped, clasping his hands to his chest. "As if I would bring this up at every available opportunity. I've barely mentioned how you dropped that device from Victor Marton, which could have been a bomb*."

Only every day since it happened, Illya thought to himself, but decided not to retaliate. He would simply bide his time until Napoleon made a mistake.

_*Devious Device_


	57. A Bad Day at the Office

An hour had passed since Napoleon's call for Illya's back-up had been cut off mid-sentence. Communications had been unable to re-establish contact, but had managed to pinpoint Solo's general location. It had turned out to be a seemingly abandoned factory, which was apparently devoid of life. At least, that had been Illya's train of thought before he heard footsteps echoing towards him.

Looking around the corridor in which he was walking, Illya saw nothing which he could duck behind so drew his weapon and carried on going forwards. He found himself hoping that it was Napoleon heading his way, but the gait sounded wrong. Within seconds, a figure dressed in a THRUSH uniform stepped into corridor. It wasn't Napoleon but he was armed. Both men raised their guns and fired at the same time.

Pain exploded in Illya's right shoulder but, despite staggering a little, he stayed on his feet and kept a hold of his weapon. The THRUSH guard wasn't so lucky. Illya had caught him directly in the heart and he'd died instantly. Pausing momentarily, the Russian stooped to close the dead man's eyes. Then, pressing his hand against his wound, he carried on his search for Napoleon.

He found him, five minutes later, chained to a metal beam. Napoleon was sitting on the ground with his hands fastened behind him, around the pole. He had also been gagged.

"There's a bomb!" he blurted out as soon as Illya removed the dirty rag from his mouth. "It's attached to the chain on my wrists.

Without saying a word, Illya went around behind Napoleon to examine the device.

"There doesn't seem to be a timer," he finally said after several seconds. "I don't know what might set it off."

"In that case, you should leave."

"Do you honestly believe that will happen?" Illya retorted.

"If I'm not mistaken, there's blood on your shirt," Solo continued. "I'm going to assume that you were on the receiving end of one of those gunshots I heard."

"You assume correctly," the Russian replied, carefully examining the device. "How did you end up here?"

"I was following an informant," Napoleon told him. "It seems, however, that he was double dealing and he led me straight into the waiting arms of THRUSH."

"Which THRUSH exactly?" Illya queried. "The only person I've met is the one who shot me."

Napoleon frowned with confusion.

"There were dozens of people here when I arrived," he told his partner. "I couldn't tell you where they've gone."

"We'd better get you out of here before they decide to return," Illya told him. "Now please be quiet while I concentrate."

After two silent minutes Illya determined that the bomb was a fake, and told Napoleon as much.

"I can't get to the lock, so I'll have to find something to cut the chain. Wait here."

Napoleon watched as Illya left the room. Judging by the way he was stumbling, he was obviously losing blood quickly, but Napoleon couldn't help him until he was free. Illya returned a few minutes later with a set of bolt cutters. With difficulty, thanks to his injury, he through the chain and, using his good arm, helped Napoleon to his feet.

The pair made their way out of the building, passing only the dead guard, and had just reached Illya's car when they was an almighty boom. Napoleon pulled Illya to the ground and covered both of their heads as pieces of the building landed around them. Once the dust settled, they sat up and surveyed the scene.

"I thought you said it was a fake," Napoleon said, almost conversationally.

Illya could have sworn the device wasn't real, but the evidence strewn around them told a different tale.

"I have been shot and have lost a lot of blood", he replied, completely deadpan. "This clearly impaired my judgement."

"Either way, we both survived," Solo stated. "Let's go and get you to medical."


	58. Intruder

The intruder stood over sleeping the man and quietly watched his chest rise and fall. Despite being in a deep slumber, the blond was barely making a sound. His face was almost angelic, which completely belied the dangerous agent he was known to be. The trespasser pondered about how easy it would be to kill the man as he slept, but that wasn't why he was there. Illya Kuryakin was to be taken alive.

Holding out his gun, Adam Shepard spoke.

"Wake up!"

Illya's eyes snapped open and he immediately reached for his weapon, which he kept beneath the pillow.

"Don't even think about it," Shepherd warned him.

Sitting up, Illya tried to make out the face of the man, but it was moonless night, and the lights of the city weren't enough for him to see clearly.

"Who are you?" he demanded. "And how did you get in here?"

"Who I am doesn't matter," Shepherd replied "Getting past your security system wasn't easy, but that is why THRUSH hired me. Amongst my many talents, I'm an expert at security systems."

"I take it I am to be presented to your employers," Illya stated as he slowly stood up. "Do you think I could dress first?"

"Don't move," his captor told him, as he edged towards the wardrobe.

Without taking his eyes, or his gun, from Illya, he reached inside and grabbed a handful of clothes. He threw them on the bed and ordered Illya to get dressed quickly. Kuryakin almost smiled when he saw one of the two shirts on offer. Keeping his face impassive, he put the shirt on. As he fastened the buttons on his cuffs, he surreptitiously activated the distress/homing beacon embedded within it. Not that he was going to simply wait for a rescue. He wasn't going let his would-be abductor take him without a fight.

"My shoes are in the other room," Illya told shepherd, after putting his trousers on.

Shepherd gestured for his captive to go into the sitting room. Making sure to keep his hands in view, Illya allowed his captor to see where the shoes were before reaching down. Without any warning, Illya flung one of the shoes directly at Shepherd's gun hand. The weapon flew from the man's grip, and his momentary confusion gave Illya the time he needed to dive forward and tackle him.

The two men grappled, each trying to gain the upper hand. Throughout the ten minute fight, fists flew, feet kicked, and hair was pulled. They crashed around the room, knocking a picture from the wall, and breaking the coffee table as they fell onto it. Both men were exhausted from the protracted battle. Shepherd, being the bigger man, still easily managed to roll Illya onto his back, and began to rain blows onto his face. With his knees pinning the Russian's arms down, he could land his punches without obstruction.

All Illya could do was move his head in attempt to avoid the fists, and attempt to kick his attacker in the back. His efforts failed, and he began to slip into unconsciousness. Just before his grip on wakefulness left him, Illya heard his door crash open, and the unmistakable sound of a special firing a sleep dart.

…

When he woke, Illya was dismayed to find himself in medical, once again. The reason for his being there rushed back into his memory.

"Who was he?" he asked Napoleon, who was sitting the customary vigil.

"Adam Shepherd," Solo told him. "He's a freelance safecracker, burglar, and abductor, currently in the employ of our favourite birdies. We've got him in interrogation, but I doubt we'll get anything useful from him. How are you feeling?"

"Insecure," Illya replied. "He managed to break into my apartment without setting off the alarm. How did you get to me so quickly?"

"Shepherd managed to bypass most of the system, but obviously didn't know about the timer failsafe you had built in. So when he didn't wait the ten seconds between unlocking the door and opening it, the alarm sounded at HQ."

Illya smiled with grim satisfaction.

"At least I know that it works. Perhaps we should incorporate it in the security arrangements for all agents' apartments."

"Not a bad idea, Tovarisch," Solo agreed. "In the mean-time, you can bed down at mine until yours is re-secured."

"Thank you, my friend," the Russian replied with a grin.

Illya enjoyed his stays with Napoleon. The American's kitchen was stocked with finer foods than his.


	59. For Whom the Bell Tolls

Napoleon Solo and Illya Kuryakin had to drive almost two miles off the main highway before they found what they were looking for. It wasn't at all what they expected.

Following up on information gained from a captured THRUSH operative, the agents were investigating an apparent chemical weapons plant. What they had been sent to was a derelict single-storied farmhouse; which was the only structure for miles around. Reaching the building, Illya brought his vehicle to a stop, a short distance from the door.

"Are you sure you followed the directions correctly?" asked Napoleon, as he climbed from the car.

"I know how to read a map, Napoleon," Illya replied, surveying their surroundings. "Unlike some people I could mention."

Solo narrowed his eyes at his partner's barb, but didn't rise to the bait. He was more concerned about the farmhouse. An uneasy feeling was beginning to settle in his stomach. Neither Napoleon nor Illya had been part of the interrogation which had yielded the information, but the operative had been in the hands of skilful questioners.

"Do you get the felling we're being led into a trap?" he asked.

"Very much so," Illya agreed. "It would seem we will have to walk in to it in order to discover what it is."

Napoleon scanned the horizon, hoping to see something that would give him a clue as to what was going on. When nothing was forthcoming he looked back to the house.

"I don't think it would be prudent for us both to go in," he said to Illya. "I'll check out the house, you wait out here. Call HQ and double check the gen. I'm really not happy about this."

"And I am not happy with that plan," Kuryakin countered. "You're the CEA, and as such, I should be checking the house."

Solo couldn't stop his sigh from escaping. He and Illya had argued this point on more than one occasion, yet he couldn't get the Russian to accept that he wasn't his bodyguard. Admittedly, it wasn't as bad as it used to be, but putting oneself between a senior officer and danger had been ingrained deeply into Illya.

"I'm not going over this again, Tovarisch. Just keep an eye out for any danger out here."

Napoleon drew his special and walked towards the house. Slowly and carefully, he made his way around the outside, peering through all the windows as he passed them. There was nothing to be seen within. Every piece of furniture and decoration seemed to have been stripped out years before. Reaching the front door, Solo pushed it open and entered the house.

As he'd seen from the outside, every room was empty; apart from one. One the wall of the kitchen, in a position which couldn't be seen from outside, was a brand new telephone. The incongruity of it caused Napoleon to stop in his tracks. He glanced around him to check for danger before reaching out to the device.

Just as his hand touched the telephone, it began to ring. Only his years of training prevented Napoleon from dropping his weapon out of shock. The sudden sound in the silence would have caused lesser men to flee. Picking up the receiver, as much to stop the noise as anything, Napoleon lifted it to his ear.

"Hello," he said, attempting to sound confident.

"It's on its way, Mr Solo," a deep voice stated.

"What do you mean it's on its way?" Napoleon demanded. "Who are you? What's on its way?"

"A bright and burning death."

Whoever the voice belonged to hung up, leaving Napoleon to stare at the receiver. A couple of minutes later, his survival instinct kicked in. A bright and burning death could only mean one thing. As fast as he could, he darted from the house and ran back towards Illya.

"Get in and start the engine," he yelled.

Illya didn't question it. He simply did as asked, and as soon as Solo was in the car, he stepped on the gas. Thirty seconds later, the house exploded.

Kuryakin continued to drive for a few more seconds, and then slammed on the brakes. The two men got out of the vehicle and watched as the remnants of the house burned. Neither of them said a word for a while.

"It was definitely a trap," Napoleon eventually commented, without any inflection in his voice.

"The THRUSH operative has been found dead in his cell," Illya informed him, equally deadpan. "We'll get nothing more from him."

Solo glanced at his watched.

"Lunch?" He asked.

"Absolutely," agreed Illya. "I believe you owe me."

As they drove away, they both contemplated which member of THRUSH had set the trap for them, but neither of them discussed it. It didn't profit anyone to dwell on such things.


	60. Warrior

As assignments went, the one Illya Kuryakin was currently involved in was becoming one of his favourites. This was despite the attention he was getting from the many women around him.

Illya's cover was that of a gardener at a residential complex for senior citizens. Eighty percent of the residents were women, who treated him one of two ways. One set were what Napoleon would call 'game old birds'. They never missed an opportunity to make physical contact with their 'pretty young man'. Illya had been undercover for almost a week and he had learned quickly who to avoid.

The other group of women all seemed to be vying for a position as his babushka. If they weren't trying to feed him up with home-made soup, they were knitting him hats and sweaters. Yet, in spite of all this, Illya was enjoying the assignment.

His job was an easy one. He was watching the comings and goings at a large house across the street from the complex. It belonged to an exceptionally rich businessman, who was thought to be courting THRUSH. Illya's assignment was to photograph anyone who entered the house, using the camera hidden in the handle of his garden trowel. He was not to engage anyone.

The retirement complex had gardens to the front, which gave U.N.C.L.E. a perfect vantage point from which to observe the house during the day. During the night another agent watched the building from a dark car.

"Good morning, Mr Kuryakin."

Illya looked up into the smiling face of Mrs Kawabata as she hobbled by. He liked the little Japanese lady, and admired her determination. She was ninety-two years old, and had difficulty walking. However, this didn't deter her. Every morning, with the aid of two canes, she walked to the main gate and back. It was only a forty metre round trip, but it took her almost an hour. All offers of help were politely declined and Illya couldn't help but smile at her stubbornness. On an afternoon, following a rest, she would come out and help in the garden. She needed aid getting down to the ground, and back up again, but she wouldn't be stopped.

As he watched Mrs Kawabata go by, Illya noticed a large black car come to a stop outside the house he was watching. Raising his hidden camera in readiness, he was surprised to see a man exit the vehicle and start to come towards him. The man reached into his jacket and withdrew his gun. The Russian had his weapon on him, but knew he wouldn't have time to reach it.

"We don't appreciate U.N.C.L.E. watching any of our associates," The man stated as he got closer. "This will be a friendly warning."

Over the shoulder of the gunmen, Illya was astounded to see Mrs Kawabata raising one of her canes in a double handed grip; one hand at the end, and the other in the centre. She looked for all the world like a warrior wielding a naginata, a traditional pole weapon with a curved blade at one end. Mrs Kawabata swung the cane in a downward arc and made sickening contact with the gunman's head. He dropped like a stone.

Recovering quickly from his shock, Illya gently took hold of Mrs Kawabata and guided her to a garden seat.

"It would seem I have a warrior in my garden," he commented, as he carefully checked the lady over.

"And I think you are a gardener who goes to war," she replied, pointing at the unconscious man. "Though I suspect you aren't really a gardener."

Illya smiled but didn't answer. Instead he asked her about her martial art skills.

"Too many years ago I was a member of the onna-bugeisha."

"The female samurai?" Kuryakin asked. "I thought they died out long ago."

"They weren't technically samurai," Mrs Kawabata told him. "But yes, their status and function did diminish drastically. However, the female line of my family kept up the traditions and the training of the early onna-bugeisha. No-one knew why we continued, but we did. I taught my daughters, and they in turn have taught theirs."

Mrs Kawabata seemed to sag, as her energy drained.

"It was quite exhilarating to turn my hand to it again, as brief as it was," she said, laying a hand on Illya's arm. "It has, unfortunately, tired me out."

Illya helped her to her feet and offered to help her to her apartment. Naturally, she refused.

"You have your sleeping friend to deal with."

After retrieving Mrs Kawabata's canes, he watched to make sure she was steady on her feet before turning to the gunman. He pulled his communicator from his pocket and opened a channel. Mr Waverly was not going to be pleased about this.


	61. Train Torment

Stepping from the train, Napoleon Solo and Illya Kuryakin carefully scanned the platform. They both span around a full 360 degrees to see who had also left the train, but could see no sign of the woman.

"I think we've shaken her off," Solo stated, his eyes continuously looking for any indication of her presence.

"I wish I could believe that," Illya replied, with venom in his voice. "I hold you entirely to blame."

"I thought you would," Napoleon mumbled.

Truth be told, he was to blame. He suspected he was going to have to buy Illya an extremely large dinner to make up for it. The Russian had been an innocent bystander.

"Come on, Tovarisch, let's get our luggage and go to the hotel."

The two of them had one more look along the platform before heading off to find a taxi.

The journey to their hotel only took fifteen minutes. Throughout the journey, Illya had constantly kept turning to glance out of the rear window. He was convinced that they hadn't seen the last of the woman. Napoleon on the other hand was certain they would have no more trouble from her.

"Illya, will you calm down," he told his partner as they checked in to the hotel. "I know paranoia is natural for you, but I promise you, we'll see no more of her."

"Eight hours, Napoleon," Illya retorted. "We were on that train with her for eight hours."

"I know, I know, but it's all over now."

"Oh My Word!"

Illya flinched as the heavy Bronx accent of Marcie May Hooper cut across the lobby.

"You were saying?" he mumbled to Solo.

"Miss Hooper," Napoleon said to the woman, by way of greeting. "Are you staying at this hotel?"

"I most certainly am!" she exclaimed. "Isn't that wonderful?"

"Wonderful," Illya echoed, totally deadpan.

"You made a long journey simply fly over. I think I would have been bored to tears had I not had the two of you to talk to."

"I think you mean 'talk at'", the Russian muttered, turning away.

"Are you staying long," Marcie May continued, showing no sign of hearing what Illya had said. "I do hope so. The three of us could have dinner together, maybe see the sights tomorrow. Or how about I find a theatre and find a show we could all go and see. I'm here for the week. Wouldn't it be great if we could enjoy this holiday as a group? I would love to . . ."

"We're busy!" Kuryakin snapped.

"Aren't you just a Gloomy Gus?" said Miss Hooper, with a pout.

"Don't worry about my friend," Napoleon told her.

He had turned the charm right up and easily deflected any offense she might have felt from Illya.

"However," he continued. "I am afraid that he is quite correct in what he says. We are here on business and will only be staying the one night."

"Oh, that's too bad!"

"Please excuse us," Napoleon said, as he kissed Marcie May's hand. "We must be getting on."

After saying their goodbyes, the agents went to their room, where Illya made a point of locking the door.

"We could have avoided all that if you haven't flirted with her on the train."

"Flirted?" Solo replied. "I only said hello to her. It is hardly my fault that neither of us got a word in edgeways after that."

"I'm still blaming you," Illya reiterated. "You can make up for it by paying for room service. I'm going nowhere near this hotel's restaurant while she's around."

Napoleon shrugged in agreement. It was a small price to pay not to hear Marcie May Hooper's voice again. 


	62. Misjudged

"This is an outright insult! How dare Waverly treat me in such a way?!"

Illya chose not to react as Senator Bryant snatched up the phone to complain to the head of UNCLE North-West. As he watched the orange light of the dawn fade away, Illya could hear the senator yelling about the indignity of being sent a Russian as his security escort.

It wasn't the first time it had happened, and it was something Illya was getting used to. In his early days in the States, being denigrated for his nationality often upset him, and left him wondering whether he should just return home. It was until Napoleon asked him how an American would be treated in the USSR that he realised it really wasn't something he should worry about. Illya enjoyed relative freedom in America, which was more than an American would have in Russia.

On the telephone, the senator had stopped yelling and was looking puzzled. Illya had to hold back a smile when he heard him say 'Senator Bob Thwaite?".

Thwaite, and his family, owed their lives to Illya Kuryakin following an abduction attempt. In his usual self-sacrificing style, Illya had sustained life-threatening injuries in the operation to prevent the family from being taken. As he listened to Senator Bryant, Illya figured that Waverly had suggested the man speak to Thwaite. Sure enough, Bryant hung up and immediately telephoned the other senator. Within the space of three minutes, Bryant's whole demeanour had changed. Finishing his call he turned to Kuryakin.

"Please accept my apologies," he began. "I judged the book by its cover, and . . ."

Illya waved the apology away.

"Say no more about it, Sir," he replied. "It is something I deal with all the time. Are you ready to go now? Your plane leaves in an hour."

"Absolutely, Mr Kuryakin. Lead the way."


	63. Some Battles Can Wait

"That's the last of them, Mr Reid."

Stefan Reid, head of the U.N.C.L.E. North West accounting department, frowned as his secretary deposited the stack of files on his desk. Just looking at them gave him a headache. One whole pile contained the expenses claims of Napoleon Solo. Although Reid had signed off on them, he needed to look back through them and compile lists of which items were claimed for the most. He was, of course, going to be looking through those of other Section 2 agents, but he needed to get the biggest problem out of the way first.

The simple fact of the matter was, even though U.N.C.L.E. had more than enough operating capital, Mr Waverly had initiated an economy drive. For accounting, that meant cutting back on unnecessary expenditure, which in turn led to the expenses claims of agents and the fanciful claims of Mr Solo. He'd set aside a whole day to tackle the Solo pile and planned to explain the finer points of fiscal responsibility to the man in question the following day.

Taking a deep breath, followed by a large swig of hiss coffee, Stefan Reid opened the first file. It was going to be a long day.

The following day, Reid check back over his figures from the previous day. After many calculations and considerations, he figured he could shave at least thirty-five percent from Mr Solo's claims. Reid had sent word that he wished to see the CEA at his earliest convenience.

By late afternoon he still hadn't heard from Mr Solo, but that could simply mean he wasn't in the building. It was perfectly possible he wasn't even in the country. Nevertheless, he sent his secretary to find out where the man might be. She returned a few minutes later, with tears in her eyes.

"Napoleon is in a hospital upstate," she told her boss, with a sob. "It seems he got caught up in an explosion at a museum, which would have killed forty-four elementary school children, two teachers, and three museum workers if he hadn't made sure they all got out. Apparently it was a THRUSH device, though no-one knows yet why they placed it there."

"Will he be okay?" Stefan asked, with trepidation.

"It's touch and go at the moment," his secretary explained. "The next forty-eight hours will be difficult."

Reid thanked her and looked down at his neatly written figures. Now though, instead of seeing hand stitched suits and Italian shoes, he could see little children. He could see brother's kids and could imagine the pain of losing them, especially in such a barbaric way. He'd always been well aware that the agents were risking their lives on a daily basis, but it was his job to make sure money wasn't frittered away. For now though, the lives of all those people were worth more than the cost of repairing a car or dinners at the finest restaurants.

Picking up the sheet of paper, he tore it into pieces. This was a battle for another day.


	64. Sweet Memory

**This was originally written for mlaw as part of the LJ MFUWSS Easter Egg Challenge. The prompt was 'I'd like a gen Easter egg please, involving Illya, painted Easter eggs and a Matryoshka doll.'**

Illya Kuryakin was not a happy man. He was once again being held captive, but knew he would not be escaping anytime soon.

"You may as well get yourself out of that mood Mr Kuryakin. You're here for the foreseeable."

Illya ignored UN.C.L.E.'s head nurse and continued to brood. He'd only broken his leg in three places; he wasn't dying.

"Two of the girls from the secretarial pool have something for you which might just bring a smile to your face," Nurse Redfearn continued. "I'll send them in."

This alone was enough to lift his heart. Despite what people thought of him, Illya quite liked the company of the ladies from the secretarial pool. For one thing, he could pick up quite a lot of gossip about his partner which he could store away for later use. More importantly, they often brought him food when he was stuck in medical.

Shortly after leaving the room, Jenny Flynn and Gayle Noble entered. The former was carrying a small, beribboned box and they were both grinning like two children who were failing to hide a secret.

"We know that you enjoy seeing the entries in the annual Easter Egg painting competition," Jenny said, as she handed the box to him. "But being here means you're going to miss it. So, Gayle and I decided to paint one just for you."

"We hope you like it," Gayle added. "We'll leave you in peace to open it, but remember, we aren't very good artists."

After they left, Illya stared at the box for several minutes, wondering if they'd chosen the red ribbon deliberately. With exaggerated care, he pulled on the end of the ribbon to untie it, and then lifted the lid. His breath hitched when he saw what was inside.

**...**

It wasn't the most sophisticated rendering of a Matryoshka doll he'd ever seen, but the fact it was egg shaped transported him straight to his early childhood. He could still see the beautiful wooden set that his babushka had on a small shelf above her bed. They had been lovingly, and painstaking carved and decorated by his grandfather while she was pregnant with their first child, Illya's mother, Kira. His grandmother had them set out in two rows, with the larger ones standing behind the smaller ones.

Illya and his sisters were forbidden from touching them, and he could still almost feel the spanking he'd received when he was caught putting them all back together to make one object.

The precious Matryoshka had been lost at the same time as his family; destroyed by the Nazi soldiers as they demolished the village and its inhabitants. Illya had stopped crying over those events long ago, but the gift from Jenny and Gayle caused tears to return to his eyes. This time, they weren't just tears of sadness. There was also joy for the memory of his family, and happiness at receiving such a thought and perfect Easter gift.


	65. Unknown Fear

They didn't understand. Then again, how could they possibly be expected to understand when he had no real explanation himself?

From a very young age, Illya Kuryakin had faced many dangers and horrors; many of which had sought to harm him. Each had caused a fear within him, but he'd never allowed it to overwhelm his senses. In fact, he fed from that fear and utilised it for whatever action he'd needed to take. Illya had endured various tortures, and painful interrogations, but nothing had compared to the terror of being in medical.

The medical staff at U.N.C.L.E. were knowledgable, professional and caring. The facilities were state of the art and exceptionally comfortable. So why he turned from a quiet and reserved man, into an angry, impatient one, was anyone's guess. He wished he could understand why this place of healing, and safety, caused such fear within that he attacked the people who were helping. Illya also wanted to know why he couldn't swallow that fear like all the other times he'd felt it.

Somewhere, in the deep recesses of his mind, a dark memory stirred. The shadow of a long forgotten trauma flitted across his consciousness but, before Illya could grab hold, it was chased away by a nurse carrying a tray. The shadow returned to its unremembered state.

"Good afternoon, Mr Kuryakin," she greeted him happily. "Are you ready for lunch?"

He grunted in reply and shrugged his shoulders dismissively. Illya knew he was being a pain in the ass, but he couldn't seem to help himself. He was a man who preferred not to draw attention to himself, but the clinical surroundings transformed him into someone you had no choice but to pay attention to. He looked disdainfully at the tray, and found himself surprised. As well as the standard dry turkey sandwich and glass of apple juice, there was something different.

"This jello is pink," he stated, holding it up like a specimen to be examined.

"That's right, Mr Kuryakin," she replied, with a warm smile. "The green one seems to cause you distress, and we want our patients to feel calm and comfortable."

To the nurse's great shock, and delight, Illya ducked his head and the elusive half smile played on his lips. It was something that few got to see; especially the medical staff.

"Thank you," he said, with absolute sincerity.

Deep inside him, the terror he felt seemed to quiet a little.


	66. St Peter's Square

"The phrase 'needle in a haystack' comes to mind," Napoleon commented as he looked out across a quite crowded St Peter's Square.

"As usual, you are over-stating the situation," Illya replied. "It won't be that difficult."

"Look around," Solo instructed, gesturing to the hundreds of people in the square. "What do you see?"

"Tourists," the Russian replied. "Many tourists."

"And?"

"And a lot of nuns," he went on. "Plus dozens of priests."

"Priests!" Napoleon exclaimed. "Exactly!"

Illya had to concede that there were, indeed, quite a lot priests and other clergymen around. However, given that they were in Vatican City, this was hardly a remarkable occurrence.

"What did intelligence say the THRUSH courier would be disguised as?" Napoleon continued with his questioning.

"A priest," Illya acknowledged. "But I'm sure we'll know which one he is."

"How exactly?"

Illya didn't reply, as he wasn't entirely sure. U.N.C.L.E.'s intelligence section had discovered that THRUSH were planning a large scale attack. Unfortunately, they didn't know any details, but had found out that some of the plans were being transferred between couriers in St Peter's Square. From what they had ascertained, a courier dressed as a priest would leave a bible under a certain bench for another courier to pick up. It would be up to Solo and Kuryakin to intercept.

"It is probably beyond blasphemous," Napoleon began, causing his partner to dread the next part of the sentence. "But, some of those nuns are really pretty."

Illya couldn't have stopped the eye roll, even if he'd tried.

"They are also brides of Christ," he pointed out. "And I know you draw the line at married women. If you must admire the ladies, there are plenty who are not wearing habits."

"That's true," Solo admitted. "I mean look over there. That pink dress looks just perfect on that brunette."

Just as Illya found the woman at whom Napoleon was pointing, a gust of wind lifted her skirts. Not many people took any notice, but Illya noticed one particular priest take a great deal of interest. He was practically licking his lips.

"I think that's our courier," he stated.

The agents watched as the priest sat down on the bench. In a carefully choreographed manoeuvre he placed his bible beside him and slowly pushed it off the back of the seat. He waited for a few minutes before standing up and leaving at an unhurried pace. In the meantime, Napoleon had begun to make his way towards the bench. Illya stayed where he was to act as look-out for his partner, and sixty seconds after the courier had left, Napoleon had retrieved the bible and was back with Illya.

"Let's go."

The two men strolled away from the square, making sure not to stand out by rushing. Behind them, the second courier arrived at the bench, only to find the package was not where he expected it to be. He searched the area frantically, but had to leave empty handed. As he walked away, he decided that he would head straight for the airport, pick a country, and disappear. He had no intention of facing his boss.


	67. Femme Fatale

It was the shoes he noticed first. To be honest they would be hard to ignore as the woman click-clacked her way across the wooden floor of the hotel lobby. They were dark crimson, patent leather, and had four-inch heels and pointed toes. He wondered briefly how women managed to squeeze their feet into footwear which bore no relation to the natural shape of the human foot. Surely their toes would be crushed. He'd heard many women complaining about the pain of high heels, but they seemed prepared to endure it in order to achieve the right effect. The shoes elongated the leg and gave an alluring shape to the calf, which he couldn't help but admire. Added to this was the hip wiggle which was produced upon walking. This movement alone had the power to entrap a man's senses.

His gaze travelled upwards to the figure hugging dress the woman wore. The hemline sat just above the knee. The woman who wore it carried herself with a certain amount of class and wouldn't dream of wearing anything too short. The garment was a shift type dress, which seemed to be all the rage, and the colour perfectly matched the shoes. The crimson was also picked out in the detail of her black purse, as well as on her fulsome lips and her talon-like finger nails. The whole ensemble was finished off with immaculately coiffured platinum blonde hair.

She strode purposefully towards the elevators, her entire demeanour screamed class and confidence. Luckily, she failed to see where he was ensconced.. After she passed by the nook in which he had concealed himself, he pulled out his communicator and opened a channel to his partner.

"Angelique is on her way up, Napoleon," Illya told the American. "Try not to let her kill you."


	68. Untitled (until I can think of one)

Two minutes had already passed since Illya had dived into the water. All movement on the top of the pond was dissipating quickly; the reflection of the golden sunset settling into a solid image. Napoleon Solo held his breath in anticipation. His partner had been under the water too for far too long so he began to remove his jacket and shoes to go in after him. The reason for Illya's current situation was lying unconscious on the ground by Solo's feet.

The agents had been tailing the THRUSH courier for quite some time. It had begun when he had picked up a package, which was about the size of a house brick. They followed him right out of the city and into the country. The plan had been to follow man to his destination, but when his rear tyre suffered a blowout and he'd been forced to abandon his car. He had obviously realised that he was being followed and wasted no time in sprinting off into the woods.

Having no other choice, Napoleon and Illya had chased the man on foot. They caught up with him just as he was throwing the package into a pond. Solo took him down with a sleep dart while Illya sprinted on and dived into the pond. Neither of the agents knew what the package held. They were merely acting on a tip off that it could be worth their while to follow it.

Napoleon decided to wait thirty more seconds, and if Illya hadn't emerged by then, he would go in and look for him. A grin appeared unbidden as the surface of the water broke and Illya appeared, gasping for breath. The Russian slowly swam back to the shore and flopped onto his back. He desperately drew the air into his tortured lungs. Solo waited for him to recover himself before asking about the package.

"No sign," Kuryakin gasped. "It is far too murky in there. The package is lost."

"You're probably right, Tovarisch," Napoleon agreed. "We have the courier. I'm sure we'll get him to tell us where he was going."

"I shall volunteer to interrogate him," Illya said, as he got to his feet. "It will make up for the cold I am no doubt about to get."

Solo patted his partner on the shoulder.

"Come on, let's get him back to headquarters.


	69. Peaceful Explosions

Illya smiled contentedly as he lay on the ground in Central Park. Above him the fireworks burst in celebration of Independence Day. He was not an American, and therefore, this celebration was not his holiday. However, he wasn't one to pass up the chance to watch things explode. Explosives had been a part of his life from a very early age. At the beginning, they terrified him, but as time passed, the young Kuryakin had learned the secrets of various chemical reactions.

His passion for explosives often led to his partner calling him a pyromaniac, and quite honestly he couldn't deny it. Illya was deft at creating bombs, and defusing them of course, but the ones he came up with were designed purely for destruction. There was very little beauty in explosives, but when it came to the colours and patterns created by fireworks, Illya was thoroughly captivated.

A short distance away, Napoleon accepted two hotdogs from the vendor and turned to make his way back to Illya. As he approached, he was struck by the absolute serenity in the Russian's expression. There seemed to be a happiness about him which wasn't usually shown. Many people thought Illya was incapable of happiness, but Solo was well aware that it was simply masked. To see him so relaxed and content out in public made for a surprising change.

Napoleon knew the reason for the smile and couldn't help mirroring it as he glanced up at the dancing colours. He sat down on the ground next to Illya.

"Here," he said, holding out the hotdog. "No ketchup and no mustard. You're a strange man Kuryakin.

Illya took the food without reply and immediately devoured it. Napoleon had barely finished his first bite.

"If you want another, you can go yourself."

"We'll have to get back to headquarters soon," Illya stated, with a hint of regret in his voice.

"I'm sure they can spare us for a while longer," Solo told him, not wishing to interrupt his friend's enjoyment. "If they want us they'll contact us."

Placing his hands behind his head, Illya once again lay back on the grass, and smiled up at the exploding sky; just as it lit by several purple blooms, which left tendrils of smoke behind them.


	70. Divine Intervention?

"There's a storm coming," Illya commented as he looked up at the darkening sky. "Hopefully it will hold off until we have achieved our goal."

His seasickness was already making him feeling miserable, and he did not relish the thought of being out on the ocean in the rain. Being prone to colds was a bane of his life.

Solo glanced up also, noting the colour of the heavy clouds. Illya was right that a storm was definitely on the way. He dismissed it from his mind. Whatever the weather, they had a THRUSH supply ship to neutralise. Intelligence had ascertained that the vessel was carrying food, technology, and guns. It had a small crew which would hopefully not be combat trained. The plan was to take the ship and arrest the crew. From what they could gather, the ship was supposed to rendezvous with a submarine, about three miles from the Canadian coast. It had dropped anchor an hour previously and was now waiting.

Liaising with the US navy, communications had told the agents that there was a sub heading their way, and would arrive in four hours. If all went to plan, the ship would be well on the way to New York by then.

Napoleon and Illya were sitting in their small boat, about a mile from their quarry, waiting for nightfall to begin; the Russian positioned behind the American. They had muffled their oars and were going to row to the ship under the cover of darkness.

As the sky grew darker, the clouds making night seem earlier than it should be, the two agents began to row. In an attempt to disguise their approach, Solo and Kuryakin rowed slowly, on a seemingly erratic course. They had only been rowing for five minutes when a loud rumble of thunder heralded the arrival of the rain.

"Just perfect," grumbled Illya.

Solo didn't comment. He could feel the glare from behind him and was amazed that the rain wasn't freezing and turning to snow as a result.

Another loud boom echoed around them just as the sky was split with several forks of lightening. As the two men continued their journey, neither of them could have foreseen what happened next.

Lightening arced down and struck the ship, causing it to explode spectacularly.

Solo and Kuryakin sat open mouthed, watching as debris fell from the sky. It was several minutes before either of them spoke.

"What in Heaven's name caused that?" Napoleon asked, turning to face Illya, who was clearly shocked at the way things had gone.

"I can only assume that the ship was carrying weaponry which was a lot more powerful than rifles."

"I think that's a given," Solo agreed. "But even so, it shouldn't have gone up like that from a lightning strike. You don't suppose it was divine intervention?"

Illya shrugged, not wishing to get into a theological debate right at that moment.

"Whatever the cause, it appears we no longer have the problem of a ship full of weapons. I suggest we head back to shore and get out of the storm."

"Absolutely," Napoleon concurred. "On the way, we can work out how we're going to report this."


	71. The Scent of an Agent

Despite it only being ten o'clock in the morning the man was clearly extremely inebriated. As he staggered and wobbled his way down the street, people moved away from him; not wishing to be near such a person. It was bad enough that he appeared to be covered in his own vomit, but he also smelled like week old urine.

Being the owner of the odour meant that Illya Kuryakin couldn't get away from it. Every ounce of his will power was working to prevent him from adding to the stains on his shirt. To take his mind from his predicament, Illya threw himself into the role of drunken bum.

He staggered on, singing colourful sea shanties, and generally making a public nuisance of himself. Every so often, he took a swig from the bottle which was hidden inside the paper bag in his hand. Of course, it was merely water, but no-one was going to get close enough to him to check. The bag held more than a bottle. Safely ensconced at the bottom was an exceptionally sensitive microfilm. If the enemy were to get their hands on it, then they would have access to a top secret weapons laboratory.

As he weaved his way through the crowded street, Illya kept his eye out for his contact. Finally, after what had felt like an eternity, he saw who he was looking for. It was another Section 2 agent, by the name of Harvey, and he was disguised as a police officer. Without making it too obvious, Illya headed his way.

As he approached the fake officer, he made a big play of stumbling, and landed in front of the man, and rolled onto his back.

"Are you okay, sir?" Harvey asked, before saying his code phrase. "It's a little early in the day for festivities, don't you think?"

"Good morning, occifer," Illya slurred, and then recited his own code phrase. "Isn't it an amazing coincidence that the colour of the sky is actually sky blue?"

Helping Illya to his feet, Harvey took the bottle from Illya, and tried not to gag at the horrendous aroma. Whoever had created Kuryakin's disguise had done an excellent job with authenticity.

"I'll be taking this, Sir. Maybe you should think about heading home."

Cursing loudly, the Russian shrugged, and continued his wobbly journey. He went half a block before turning into an alley; undoing his fly as he went so that observers would assume he was going to relieve himself. In the alley he found his partner waiting. As he opened the car door, Napoleon thrust a pair of coveralls at him.

"You are not getting in my car smelling like that," he told Kuryakin, holding a handkerchief over his nose.

For once, Illya didn't argue. He quickly shed the offending garments and slipped into the clean, fresh-smelling coveralls.

"The hand-off went smoothly," he reported, once he was finally in the vehicle. "Now, please get me back to HQ. I have an appointment with a long, hot shower."


	72. In Need of an Aspirin

Napoleon Solo winced with empathy as another fist drove into the stomach of his partner. As usual, their captor was concentrating most of his persuasion efforts on to Illya. Not that he, himself, had gone unscathed, but the Russian was receiving the brunt of it. For reasons Napoleon had tried and failed to disabuse him of, Illya had taken it into his head that Solo, as CEA, needed to be protected. Ensuring the safety of senior officers seemed to be something he had grown up with.

Napoleon was shackled to one wall of the dungeon, while Illya was hanging by his wrists from the ceiling. He grunted against the blows being landed against his bruised torso.

"Where is it?" the large, ugly THRUSH interrogator demanded. "Where have you hidden it?"

Everything the two agents had been carrying was laid out on a small table and had been searched; but nothing could be found.

Illya remained silent. The microdot, that he and Napoleon had stolen, contained details of on-going THRUSH operations in South-east Asia. He would die before he revealed where he'd hidden it. There hadn't even been time for him to tell Solo before they were captured. In reply to the questioning, Illya spat into the face of the man, which earned him a hard punch to the jaw. He instantly lost consciousness. Watching on, Napoleon closed his eyes in exasperation. He knew Illya wouldn't talk, but he didn't need to actively annoy their tormentors.

The man turned his attention to Solo, figuring he'd have a little fun with him while he waited for the other to wake up.

"How about you?" he snarled. "Do you want to tell me what you did with the microdot? Or do you want the same treatment as your friend here?"

"I don't know where it is," Napoleon told him, with all honesty. "I can tell you one thing however."

"And what would that be?" the interrogator asked, leaning close to Solo's face.

Without warning, Napoleon head-butted the man and released himself from his shackles. While the brute had been concentrating on Illya, Solo had winkled the lock-pick from his cuff and worked the shackles open. Before his captor could do anything about his escape, Napoleon returned the punch Illya had been given. The man went down without a sound.

Solo swiftly chained him in his place, and then gently released his partner. He temporarily laid him on the ground while he pocketed their belongings. With that done, he slung the unconscious Russian over his shoulder and made their escape.

Illya awoke, in the back seat of Napoleon's car, twenty minutes later. It took him a few seconds to grasp his situation.

"Where's the aspirin?" he asked, with a hint of panic in his voice.

"We'll be back at headquarters in half an hour," Solo told him. "They have much stronger pain medication."

"I need the aspirin I was carrying," Kuryakin insisted. "Tell me that you picked it up."

"I got everything, Tovarisch. Don't worry."

Illya visibly relaxed.

"Is the microdot in the aspirin tin?" Napoleon asked, suddenly realising why Illya was so anxious.

"Yes," Kuryakin confirmed. "I stuck it to the lid."


	73. Clucking Hens

As he walked towards the typing pool, Napoleon could hear the women within. They were gossiping about a new member of the archiving team, who had transferred from London, and they weren't being very nice.

"I don't think even he would date her," one of them said. "She's a lot older than he is."

"She's only 41," replied another. "She's hardly ancient."

"Yeah," chipped in a third. "But that's probably a little too mature for Napoleon Solo."

"What about his little tradition though?" the second one asked. "He always takes a new girl to dinner."

"Girl!" the first woman scoffed. "Mabel is hardly that. Besides, he'd hardly want to be seen with someone with a butt the size of hers."

Napoleon frowned at what was being said. He was about to go in and say something when he saw the woman in question coming along the corridor towards him. He motioned for her to stay where she was and stay quiet.

"You might not want to go in there," he told her.

"They're talking about me again, aren't they, Napoleon?" Mabel asked, the pain of it shining from her big blue eyes. "I've heard the things they say about me."

Napoleon touched Mabel on the arm in a gesture of comfort.

"They're saying that I wouldn't consider dating you."

"Shows what they know," Mabel replied, smiling at a memory from a few years ago. "We may not have been dating as such, but we had a lot of fun."

"You can say that again," Solo told her, the memory bringing a smile to his face also. "How would you like to have a little fun with the clucking hens in there?"

"If you're thinking what I think you're thinking, then count me in."

"Great, you go in and I'll follow shortly after. And for the record, I'll be asking for real."

Mabel reset her facial expression and went into the typing pool. The women inside stopped talking as soon as she entered. They were all suddenly and intensely interested in their work. A few seconds later, Napoleon came into the room.

"Good morning ladies," he jovially greeted them. "Ah, Mabel, I'm glad I've caught you. I have a little tradition of taking all the new girls to dinner. I don't suppose you're free this evening."

"I would be honoured Mr Solo, thank you."

Napoleon kissed the back of her hand, and told her he'd pick her up at eight. It took every ounce of willpower not to laugh at the shocked expressions of the other women.


	74. Thrice Bitten

After receiving no answer to his knocking, Illya let himself into his partner's apartment. He knew Napoleon should have been there, as they had agreed to have breakfast at the apartment before heading to the airport. If there had been any change of plan, such as an unexpected date, Solo would have called him. Shouting out his presence, so as not to startle Napoleon, he began a search of the place.

Throughout the sitting room, and the kitchen, there were signs of Solo in stark evidence. This in itself was concerning. While he wasn't a fastidious man, Napoleon was tidy; especially when it came to clearing up after a meal. The coffee table was covered in various half eaten take-out cartons.

Illya continued his search and finally found his partner lying, in a sorry state, on the bathroom floor. From the mess in the toilet bowl, in the bath tub, and all over Napoleon himself, something from his evening meal had violently disagreed with him.

Squatting down, Illya gently roused Solo, making sure to stay far enough away from any defensive reaction the prone agent may have. He tried not to wince at the vivid purple bruise which had formed across Napoleon's forehead, which was no doubt from an accidental whack against the toilet. Slowly, Solo groaned into wakefulness, and sat himself up. He looked terribly gaunt and shaky.

"I should have known better that to go to the Rain Flower Gardens," he moaned, accepting Illya's assistance to get up from the floor.

"Rain Flower Gardens!" Illya scoffed. "Remind me how many times you've had food from there."

"Three," Napoleon told him. "As you already know."

"And how many times have you been ill as a result?" The Russian continued.

"Three," the American conceded. "But it tastes sublime."

"Luckily for you, our flight to Berlin was intentionally booked a day early," Illya commented as he pulled out his communicator. "You get yourself cleaned up and I'll go and get HQ to rebook our flights."

After Illya left the room, Napoleon took a long look at himself in the mirror. He frowned at the pale, sick looking man who stared back at him. On the plus side, a bruised face was usually good for a few sympathy dates, and there were several women in the Berlin office he wouldn't mind kissing him better.


	75. Just a Number

September had barely begun, yet the trees which the two U.N.C.L.E. were passing were already starting to show the orange hues of autumn. From the passenger seat of the car came an audible sigh. Illya Kuryakin glanced over at his partner, who was staring wistfully at the trees.

"Is there something wrong?" he asked. "We completed the assignment with no injuries, no loss of life, and no destruction of property. You are usually in an insufferably jovial mood in situations such as this."

Napoleon sighed again.

"Fall is upon us once again," he stated. "The years seem to zip by these days."

Illya frowned. There was something about Napoleon's tone which told of something deeper than the changing seasons.

"What is really troubling you, my friend?" he urged.

"Did you see the age of some of those agents at the Boston Office?" he began. "They looked like they were barely out of kindergarten. I'm only thirty-five, but I felt absolutely ancient around them."

"You're not exactly old," Illya stressed. "And given our line of work, you should be thankful to have reached thirty-five at all."

"I know," Solo replied, waving away his partner's words. "But it sometimes feels like I only just graduated from Survival School myself."

Illya smiled slightly. He actually understood what Napoleon was talking about. He had managed to fit an extraordinary amount into his thirty-four years, yet there were days he could swear he'd only just finished his stint in the Soviet navy.

"I wonder if this is what Waverly feels like," Napoleon continued. "He's called us young whippersnappers on more than one occasion."

"What exactly is a whippersnapper?" queried Kuryakin. His English was excellent but there were still many words and phrases which bamboozled him.

"To be honest, Tovarisch, I have no idea of its origin. Still, as long as I'm still considered as one, maybe I'm not so old yet. Hey, don't you have a birthday coming up?"

Illya tried to ignore the question, but Solo pressed on.

"Isn't it in two weeks?"

"You know very well that it is," the blond snapped. "And I am requesting now that you do not make any fuss. In fact, I think I will arrange to be in a different country from you around that date. I also have no wish to be reminded of my age."

"Spoilsport," Napoleon huffed. "Besides, age is just a number."


	76. A Devastating Loss

After enjoying a two hour session in the gym, Napoleon spent a further forty-five minutes getting himself ready for his date. Ordinarily, he would prepare at home, but there wouldn't be time. Besides, since he was having dinner at Maria's apartment, he could drive her home when her shift in Communications ended. He had just finished applying his aftershave and was retrieving the things would need for the evening from his locker, when Illya entered the changing room.

"Bozhe Moy!" the Russian exclaimed, coughing a little over-dramatically. "Has THRUSH mounted a gas attack?"

Solo stared quizzically at his partner before realising what he meant.

"Very funny," he replied tersely. "I'll have you know that this aftershave is very expensive."

"Then you were robbed, my friend."

Before Napoleon could reply, the wall to the left of him exploded; burying the CEA under a mound of rubble.

The force of the blast, while substantial enough to bring down a wall, wasn't strong enough to cause too much damage to the rest of the room. Illya had been knocked from his feet, and was picking himself up when Dale Abbotson ran in. U.N.C.L.E.'s resident plumbing engineer skidded to halt when he saw the demolished wall.

"I . . I . . I was coming to evacuate the area," he said, with shock evident in his voice. "There was pressure building up in one of the heating ducts."

"Never mind the cause for now," Illya snapped, as he dropped to his knees in front of the rubble. "Mr Solo is under here."

The two men worked quickly, only stopping once when a crimson liquid began running from the bottle of the pile. Illya's heart almost stopped, until his nostrils picked up the unmistakable scent of red wine. He let go of the breath he was holding and continued clearing.

Within minutes, Napoleon was free. He was a little groggy, but conscious, and was soon back on his feet. Illya draped his friend's arm over shoulders and began to lead him towards medical. They hadn't gotten far when Napoleon forced them to stop. He looked down at the dark stain on the front of his grey suit.

"This suit is new," he said, almost plaintively. "This was its first outing."

"It could have been worse, Napoleon," Illya told him. "It could have been your life."

From the look Napoleon gave him, Illya could almost be convinced that losing a suit was just as devastating as losing his life.


	77. More Alike Than Different

When April Dancer and Illya Kuryakin entered the Turkish café, there were three veiled girls dancing their way around the room. The three were dressed in near identical costumes comprising of diaphanous harem pants, fringed bra, sequined yashmak and a jewel in their navels. Above the veil, each had heavy kohl around the eyes, which accentuated their sultriness. The only real difference was the colour of each woman's costume; with one being in red, another in blue, and the third in green.

The two agents found themselves a free table and were instantly attended by a waiter. They ordered coffee and turned their attention to the dancers. Their contact was the woman in blue.

"Do you have the copy?" April asked.

Illya nodded, and opened his hand to show her.

"Not that I'm complaining about your company, Illya, but I would have thought Napoleon would jump at the chance of watching these dancers."

Illya smiled a little and agreed.

"Mr Waverly was well aware of that fact, which is why I was chosen to be your 'husband' for this mission," he told her. "He thought that I would be more able to act like a married man."

"I don't understand," April replied. "Married men aren't immune to the charms of beautiful women. They often get caught looking at other women by their wives."

"There is a world of difference between having a sly look and sitting with your tongue hanging out."

"Oh, Illya," April giggled. "He isn't as bad as all that."

"Maybe not," the Russian conceded. "But he can be a little too obvious at times."

April considered what Illya had said. Napoleon was an exceptional agent, but his libido had gotten himself into trouble on more than one occasion. The CEA's partner probably was a better choice. Of course, she wasn't naïve. Illya may not be led by his libido as much as Napoleon, but neither was he a monk.

The waiter returned with their coffees, and the pair were careful to position the cups so the handles pointed into the room. It was the signal to alert their contact of their presence. The woman made eye contact with them and offered a barely perceptible nod. Not wishing to make anything obvious, the dancer took her time making her way towards them. It only took a few minutes, but for Illya time seemed to slow.

She was absolutely mesmerising. Her eyes were almost a match for his in colour and the dark make-up did its job of intensifying that colour. April could barely suppress a smile as she watched her 'husband's' reaction to the woman's swaying hips.

Eventually, the dancer reached the agent's table where the jewel in her navel came unstuck and rolled under the table. It came to rest by Illya's feet. He immediately reached down and surreptitiously swapped it for the one in his hand. The handover had been made, and U.N.C.L.E. was now in possession of a microdot containing the locations of several Turkish satrapies.

Illya handed the replacement jewel to the dancer, who thanked him and moved away. He watched intently as she placed the jewel into her navel. Suddenly seeming to remember himself, Illya tore his eyes away and turned to April. She was grinning at him.

"Why are you smiling like that?" he asked. The mission was a success so far, but it didn't warrant such a reaction.

"I was just thinking," April replied. "You and Napoleon are sometimes quite alike."


	78. Whatever is Needed

"The choice is yours, Kuryakin."

Illya, who hadn't attempted to escape his bonds, spat into the face of his captor. It earned him a slap that caused his head to make painful contact with the wall, to which he was chained.

"All you have to do is give us the information we want in exchange for your freedom."

"There is no choice," Illya gasped. "The information is not mine to give, therefore, the offer of my freedom is academic."

"Have it your way. Maybe another hour with my colleague will loosen your tongue."

As his captor left the cell, Kuryakin was once again found himself in the company of his torturer. The man didn't bother with finesse and usually stuck with the tried and true pummelling method of persuasion. After two days of a constant cycle of demands and torment, Illya was more than ready for his rescue. Had he been captured during any other mission, he would have tried several ways of escape by now. This time, however, Illya had to await a rescue which would only come when the mission was completed by Napoleon.

Solo was actually the one who had the information that Illya's captor was so desperate for. The Russian had once again been consigned to the position of decoy, and all the discomfort it entailed. As soon as he had delivered the information, Napoleon would come for his partner.

Illya closed his eyes and readied himself for the first punch. He knew that wherever the blow landed it would hurt; thanks to the bruises he already had. The punch never came. Instead, he the tell-tale 'pfft' of a sleep dart being fired, followed by a body crumpling to the ground. Opening one eye, Illya was greeted with the pearly white grin of Napoleon.

"Are you well, Tovarisch?"

"Tell me, Napoleon," Illya began, as Solo released him from his chains. "How come you are never the decoy?"

"Hey, don't blame me for this one," the American replied. "The Old Man decided the roles this time."

Illya raised a disbelieving eyebrow. As far as he could recall, Napoleon had never been the decoy during their partnership. Still, there was no point in arguing the point. The result of the mission was the important part, and it was his job to do what was needed to ensure that result.


	79. Dying

There were many occasions throughout his life when Illya Kuryakin knew he was going to die. Each time he was spared by fate, but this time was different. This time he felt sure there would be no second chance.

How could there be?

He had lost everything by which he could be tracked. Nobody knew where he was and he didn't know himself. Around him was nothing but forest, but the last thing he remembered, before he was taken, was being in the heart of the city.

Illya also had no idea how long he had been held, or even who it was who had enjoyed physically tormenting. There had been no questions asked, just darkness, constant pain in his abdomen, and many syringes full of who-knew-what.

Despite being convinced of his imminent demise, Illya was determined to go out fighting. He lurchedfrom tree in a futile attempt to find any sort of help but he was soon betrayed by his own body. His strength drained and he stumbled to the ground. With a great deal of effort, Illya rolled onto his back and stared up through the canopy of the trees. He was struck by the way the sunlight played though leaves and created a beautiful canvas of greens.

Although he tried to prevent it, Illya's eyes began to close. He whispered a goodbye to the world and allowed the dark to take him.

Confusion swamped Illya's mind as he awoke. He found himself in U.N.C.L.E. medical with his partner, as was customary, sitting in the chair at his bedside. Napoleon had a strange expression of worry and relief on his face.

"How did you find me?" Illya asked, his dry throat causing his voice to crack.

"What do you mean?" Napoleon asked. "I was with you."

"No, I was alone," Illya asserted. "I was lost in a forest after enduring terrible torment. I was dying."

"Yes, you were dying, Tovarisch, but there was no forest. You collapsed four days ago when we were heading out for lunch. Your appendix burst and you've had a very high fever."

"That would explain it then," Illya muttered, before drifting into a more restful sleep.


	80. Guilty Pleasure

Living in the decadent west meant that Illya was free to pursue pastimes which were frowned upon at home. Some of his countrymen would even go so far as to call him subversive. His favourite diversion was jazz, and living in New York gave him access to as much of it as he could ever want. He even played the English horn in the Parisian Club whenever he had a free Wednesday*. For those times when he was relaxing in his apartment, Illya had his ever growing record collection.

He and Napoleon and been returning from lunch when Illya had suddenly decided to park up.

"What's up?" Solo asked, sounding slightly concerned.

"I'll be back in a minute," Illya replied.

As the Russian got out, Napoleon saw the reason for the pause. Illya had stopped outside a record store.

A few minutes later, Solo watched in amusement as his partner exited the store. Dressed in his trademark black suit and turtleneck, he wasn't hard to miss amongst the sea of colour passing by him. To the casual observer, Illya looked like your average beatnik rushing home to enjoy his latest musical purchase. To Napoleon, thanks to the record Illya had attempted to hide in his jacket, he looked like the spy he was, who had just retrieved a dead drop. There was also an extremely subtle furtiveness about him that few would notice.

"Are you on an assignment that I don't know about," asked Napoleon, as his partner got into the vehicle.

"What are you talking about?" Illya asked, as he carefully placed the record on the back seat.

"You looked like you were trying to conceal a package when you came out of there."

Illya gave him a puzzled glare before realizing what he had just done.

"Old habits die hard," he mumbled.

"Oh?"

"Back home, if you were caught with something you shouldn't have, it would be confiscated," Illya explained. "That was the least that would happen, depending on what it was you had. Western jazz records were a big no-no. Because of this, you always had to conceal anything you should have on you. Even though I haven't had to do that for a long time, my natural instincts seem to still be active."

"I suppose that's no bad thing for a spy," Napoleon chuckled. "Come on, let's get back. Mr Waverly is expecting us in half an hour."

_*__Ice Does Melt_


	81. Cherry Water

Napoleon chose not to open his eyes. He knew from past experience that the act would only bring more pain than he was already feeling. His best course of action was to remain perfectly still until his head stopped pounding, his stomach settled, and the world around him stopped moving.

"You only have yourself to blame," came a voice from the next room. A voice, which in Napoleon's opinion, sounded far too cheery and healthy. Illya should definitely be feeling as bad as he was.

Solo was all too aware that his current circumstance was his own fault, although it didn't stop him giving some of the blame to his partner. Illya had been entirely complicit in the endeavour and had imbibed just as much as he did. Admittedly, the Russian could drink vodka like water, but Napoleon was no light-weight when it came spirits either.

They'd been celebrating reaching the fifth anniversary of their partnership the only way possible; by drinking to oblivion. Napoleon had arranged for the pair of them to have two days off to allow for the inevitable hangover.

"I've been out and bought pastries," Illya called from the kitchen. "Do you want one?"

Napoleon's stomach churned at the thought.

"Napoleon?" The voice was closer.

The American cracked open one eye and saw a blurry Illya holding up a bakery bag.

"No thanks," he finally croaked. "I'll just have coffee.

Illya disappeared back into the kitchen and Napoleon decided to sit up. He had fallen asleep on the sofa, so at least he didn't have undertake the journey from the bedroom. With exaggerated care, he pulled himself up. After waiting for his head to spinning, he looked at the debris on the coffee table. Amongst the detritus of what was left from their Chinese take-out, he could see several empty glasses and spirit bottles. One glass in particular drew his attention. Picking it up, he glared at the dark pink liquid, which still filled half the glass. Napoleon gave it an experimental sniff and wrinkled his nose.

"What was this?" he asked Illya, as he came back into the room with the coffee and pastries.

"Do you not remember?"

"Would I be asking if I did?"

"You decided that vodka was too boring a flavour on its own," Illya explained. "You decided it needed something else and settled on that bottle of kirsch you brought back from Switzerland.

"I hate that stuff," Solo replied, suddenly feeling very unwell indeed. "I got it for Aunt Amy."

Napoleon suddenly found that he could move after all and dashed at full speed towards the bathroom. Illya smiled, somewhat evilly, and tucked into his pastry.


	82. Corpse Candle (A Hallowe'en Story)

The full moon emerged from behind a cloud, bathing the whole area in an eerie white light. It coincided with a cool breeze, which blew several crispy brown leaves between the gravestones in the cemetery. Overhead a colony of bats squeaked as they swooped past and Napoleon Solo wondered if he was to be witness to every horror movie cliché. While he pondered, hiding behind a mausoleum, an owl hooted. Borrowing the action from his partner, Napoleon rolled his eyes.

"Come on, where are you?" he whispered into the darkness.

"The contact isn't due for another ten minutes," replied Illya Kuryakin, who was hiding beside him.

"Who schedules a handover, in a cemetery, at midnight on Hallowe'en?" Solo asked, sounding somewhat annoyed by it.

"Don't tell me you are afraid?" Illya snickered. "With the things you've seen, you are frightened of myths."

Napoleon chose not to dignify the taunt with an answer; choosing instead to keep an eye out for the agent who was bringing the package. A flickering light halfway across the ground appeared as though from nowhere. It was a pale orange colour and seemed to be taking a deliberate path between the stones. Solo tugged at Illya's sleeve and pointed out the light.

The two men watched in silence as the light slowing came towards them. The closer it got, the more it looked like a candle flame. They both held their breaths as it passed by them, but Napoleon couldn't stop himself from gasping as he saw what looked like a face. The light continued onwards until it came to a stop over an empty patch of land. It flared brightly then disappeared.

"What the Hell was that?" Napoleon hissed.

Illya didn't reply right away. When he'd lived in Britain he had read stories of such things, but had taken them with a pinch of salt.

"It was a Corpse Candle," he said eventually. "They are a portent of death in Welsh and Celtic mythology."

"What are you talking about?"

"It is said that the light issues from a house where a death is about to occur," Illya continued. "It travels along the route of what will be the funeral procession until it reaches the soon-to-be deceased's burial plot."

"I take it the face is that of the person who is about to die," Napoleon stated.

"Da," Kuryakin confirmed. "But it is only a myth."

"Then what did we just see?"

Illya didn't answer. He refused to believe that they had just seen a Corpse Candle. Besides, this was the American Mid-West, not Mid-Wales. Luckily for the two of them, their contact arrived and drew their minds back to the job in hand.

Three days later, Napoleon entered the office he shared with his partner, and handed a piece of paper to him.

"What's this?" Kuryakin asked.

"I was thinking about that light we most definitely didn't see in the cemetery," Napoleon told him. "I decided to look into any deaths in that area. It would seem one gentleman died half a mile away, at three o'clock, on the morning of November 1st."

Illya looked at the information Napoleon had given him.

NAME: Bryn Rhydian Williams  
BORN: 17th August 1892 – Llandeilo, Carmarthenshire. Wales.  
DIED: 1st November 1966 – Aurora, Nebraska. USA.

"Apparently he came here just after the first world war," Napoleon explained. "Seems he brought his Welsh mythology with him."

Illya shivered.

"I think I need a drink," he said, putting his jacket on.


	83. Early Sparkle

Napoleon shivered as he looked out across the vast snow covered landscape. Illya was infiltrating a remote THRUSH outpost in an effort to retrieve the plans for a new long range weapon. Solo was supposed to have gone in with him but upon seeing the layout of the place it was decided that one of them would be more successful. Using his patented 'I'm the senior agent' routine, Napoleon had sent his Illya. He reasoned that, because he was slightly built, Illya would be able to get through tight spaces more easily. This, of course, had meant Napoleon was left waiting in the cold car.

The snow had started falling about forty-five minutes after Illya had gone, but not enough had come down to completely cover everything. It brought to mind something Napoleon's grandmother had once said following a snow. She had described the scene then as looking as though a white lacey veil had been laid across the land.

When the sky cleared, the almost-full moon caused the snow to sparkle as if silver glitter had been liberally sprinkled as far as he could see. There was something magical about it all and it gave Napoleon a vaguely Christmassy feel. Even though Thanksgiving had not yet been, he was already imaging the fun and games of the annual U.N.C.L.E. party. Solo was so captivated by it that he inadvertently allowed his guard to drop and was entirely unprepared for the passenger door being opened.

Luckily, as he belatedly reached for his gun, he realised that it was only Illya. That made him feel a little better about being caught out because his partner moved like a cat and could sneak up on anyone.

"Did you get it?" he asked as Illya climbed in.

"Yes," the Russian replied. "It was disgustingly easy. You seemed to be lost in your thoughts, my friend."

Napoleon shrugged. "I was just enjoying the view."

"It is very beautiful," Illya agreed. "It almost makes me feel homesick."

"It makes me feel ready for Christmas," Napoleon told him. "It's only seven weeks away."

Illya somehow managed to smile and frown at the same time. He had a feeling that Napoleon was once again going to throw himself fully in to the season.


	84. The Simplest Thanksgiving

"We need to land!" yelled Illya Kuryakin, as he began to search for somewhere to put down the helicopter he was flying.

Napoleon didn't argue. As much as he wanted to get back for Aunt Amy's Thanksgiving party, he knew the aircraft was no match against the increasingly strong winds and rain. Illya managed to land on a small piece of open ground, not far from a cave entrance and the two of them ran for the shelter of the opening. While Napoleon tried to make contact with HQ, Illya looked to see how far back their shelter went. It took all of ten seconds.

"It does not go back far, but it should keep us dry."

"I can't get signal to HQ," Napoleon replied. "And I'm not going back out there just yet."

Illya shrugged and sat himself down on the ground, with the cave wall at his back.

"I was looking forward to seeing your Aunt Amy," he said, sounding a little petulant. "I had planned to give her the gift of a small **copper** samovar."

"More like you were looking forward to all the food. I'm sure she will love the gift, no matter when she gets it," Napoleon told him, following his partner's example and sitting down. "I don't suppose you've got any food on your person?"

Illya raised a questioning eyebrow.

"Of course," he stated. "I have turkey with all the trimmings and pumpkin pie for dessert, right here in my pocket."

As he patted the pocket, he realised that there actually was something edible hidden within. Reaching in, he produced an unopened pack of Life Savers. He showed them to Solo.

"Well, it's not what I was expecting today, but are you willing to split them?"

"Is the sharing of food not the reason for this holiday?" Illya replied with a smile.

"You're right there, Tovarisch. Hold on a moment."

With an exaggerated flourish, Napoleon whipped the handkerchief from his top pocket. He then carefully laid the **cloth** on the ground in front of them.

"Just because we're stuck in a cave, it doesn't mean we can't do things properly."

Illya opened up the Life Savers and spread them out on the impromptu tablecloth. They each picked up one of the candies, and prompted by Napoleon, Illya copied as the American held his up in a toast.

"We may not be where we intended to be," he said. "But at least I'm spending the day with my closest friend. Happy Thanksgiving, Illya."

"To you also, Napoleon."


	85. In Need of Mama

Illya Kuryakin rarely suffered from homesickness, but when he did, it wasn't for a place. The thing which caused his heart to ache was a time, and the people who occupied it. The only relationship he'd had with his mother was one of a young child. As such, when he felt the absence of her, it was as that same child. Illya's yearning for her was most acute when he was badly injured. The eight year old in him wanted comfort only from her and no-one else would do. Most people didn't know that these feelings were within him, and often mistook his ill-temper as something else.

Illya had just arrived home following a three weeks in medical. He had once again borne the brunt of a vicious THRUSH torture session, which had left him fighting for his life. His doctor had wanted to keep him for at least another week, but Illya had insisted on leaving. So, after promising not to set foot in HQ for at least seven days, he was allowed to go home.

Before doing anything else, Illya took a shower; resolutely ignoring his latest crop of marks. The scars were still fairly vivid, but the bruising had already faded to a pale yellow. Once dried and dressed he made his way to the kitchen.

He tried to tell himself that, as a grown man, and ex-member of the KGB, wanting a hug from his mother was ridiculous. Unfortunately, the need outweighed the reason, and the impossibility of it only made him yearn all the more. In these instances Illya's only course of action was to do something which linked him back to that time. When he was at home, this meant making a glass of tea.

Ordinarily, Illya would simply use his electric kettle, but today called for his samovar. The act echoed that of every other Russian, and therefore, that of his mother at some point in history. He may not be able to physically hold his mama but, making the tea the way she had taught him, got him as close to her as he could.


	86. Dancing With the Enemy

The Bailar Tavern, in the heart of the Spanish city of Valencia, tended to be frequented by the more unsavoury citizens. It was for this reason it was deemed the perfect place for a little bit of dirty dealing. A lot of less-than-legal business went on within its walls, and the local police usually steered well clear.

Willard James and Leland Olson sat in the corner of the tavern, wearing non-descript grey suits in an effort to remain unobserved. They were expecting a particular man, who was bringing them details of several on-going U.N.C.L.E. operations. The information would be highly prized by THRUSH central, and it had taken James and Olson several months to gain their contact's allegiance. He also would be prized, as a double agent.

From across the room a guitarist began to play a fast tune, which brought a male flamenco dancer to the middle of the floor. Dressed in tight black trousers and shirt, the dancer looked like any other found in Spain but with a few striking differences. His blond hair, blue eyes, and pale skin marked him out as Northern European in descent.

With great gusto, Illya Kuryakin threw himself into the dance; stamping his heels as he searched for the men who were waiting for him. The information he carried was on a microfilm, which had been sewn into the edging of the black handkerchief he had hanging from the back of his waistband. He made his way over to the THRUSH agents and, making sure he was close enough, he allowed Olson to surreptitiously remove the handkerchief.

The deed was done. Illya had just passed intelligence to the enemy, which was something few people would understand, and which his detractors had been expecting. Not that anyone would find out about it. Kuryakin would make certain of that.

Finishing the dance, Illya quickly made his way out of the back door of the tavern, where he discovered Napoleon waiting for him.

"What are you doing here?" Illya demanded, looking around to ensure no-one had followed him out. "You were supposed to stay at the hotel.

"We've been called back to New York," Solo replied. "Did you hand over the microfilm?"

"Yes," the Russian replied. "Hopefully, the misinformation it contains will keep THRUSH Europe busy for quite some time."


	87. Untitled

Napoleon jerked awake and quickly cursed as every joint and muscle protested the sudden movement. Falling asleep on the hard plastic visitor's chairs in medical wasn't the best of ideas, and Napoleon's body was letting him know why. Stretching himself out, it took him a couple of seconds to realise the recipient of his vigil was missing from the bed. Panic gripped his heart and knotted his stomach as he jumped to his feet; dropping the holster he'd been holding on to since it had been cut from his partner.

The attack had been sudden and unexpected. Luckily for Illya, the knife-wielding mugger had chosen to strike as he was entering Del Floria's. Unluckily for the mugger, two agents had been on their way out.

When Napoleon had seen the crimson stain spreading across the front of the Russian's shirt, he had been certain the injury was life-threatening. The doctors were quick to reassure him that, although the wound was deep, it could be treated quickly and easily. Illya would be out of the field for a while, but he would be on light duties within a couple of days.

"Illya!" Napoleon called out.

Maybe he'd been hurt worse than had first been thought. Was in back in surgery? Or worse, had he died? Napoleon forced himself to calm down. Had either of those things happened he wouldn't have slept through it. The bathroom door opened and Illya stepped out. Despite his injuries, he had managed to dress himself.

"Where did you get the clothes from?" Solo asked, trying to cover the worry he had been experiencing. "Yours were cut off."

"I had a nurse bring them," Illya replied. "She wasn't happy about it, but I told her I was leaving regardless."

"How come I never heard this conversation? I wasn't sleeping that deeply."

"Your snoring was rattling the windows," Kuryakin stated. "If you are able, I need a ride home. I've been told that if I insist on leaving, I must keep up with my meds. Said medication precludes me from driving."

"Tovarisch, you were stabbed not fourteen hours ago. As CEA I could order you to remain here."

Illya glared at his partner; challenging him to give the order. Napoleon was sorely tempted, but decided against it. For one thing, their partnership didn't work like that. For another, had the doctor's thought it was dangerous, they would make him stay. Besides, Illya was stubborn, but he wasn't an idiot. He would want to be back in the field as soon as possible, so he wouldn't risk delaying it.

"Okay then, I'll just inform the Old Man, then I'll get you home."

Illya smiled his thanks and slowly made his way to Napoleon's car. Solo could only shake his head in wonder.


	88. Bridal Escort

When Napoleon entered the room he was struck by the beautiful dress, which had a sumptuous and long train that she was wearing. Red was an unusual colour for any bride, but he it had not been chosen by her. She was looking out over the small kingdom which was owned by her husband to be. Napoleon gave a polite cough.

"Is it time already?" she asked, without looking around.

"Only if you want it to be," Napoleon replied.

At the sound of the unknown voice, she turned to face him. As she turned, Solo could see that she had been crying; the red of her eyes mirrored that of her gown. Not that he could blame her. Fiorela Dioli was the daughter of an extremely powerful business man and, in exchange for overlooking his less-than-legal practices, she was being married off to Prince Patrizio.

"Who are you?" Fiorela demanded.

Napoleon introduced himself and explained that he was from U.N.C.L.E.

"Your mother is an old friend of my boss, Alexander Waverly, and she begged him for help," he continued. "Agents have already transported your family out of the county, including your father, and my partner is outside waiting to get us out too. He has a helicopter waiting about a mile away."

Fiorela dropped to her knees and wept into her hands.

"Thank you!" she gasped after a few moments. "Thank you, thank you, thank you."

"Hurry," he urged, helping her to her feet. "We have about half an hour before anyone realises that something is amiss."

…

They were well out of the country by the time the prince was informed his bride had disappeared, along with her family. Rather than the anger everyone in the court had expected, he merely laughed.

"Oh well," he said. "There'll be another."


	89. An Attractive Ladies Man

There was a certain element with Research and Development which Napoleon Solo tended to avoid. There were many scientists with U.N.C.L.E. but there were a few for whom science was everything, to the detriment of anything else. They usually had a severe lack of social skills, and wouldn't know what to do with a member of the opposite sex if they offered themselves to them.

However, as CEA, it was his duty to visit R&amp;D to see what was being developed for agents to use, which is what had led him onto the bowels of the building. Their latest breakthrough was a pheromone spray. It was an adaptation of a Thrush spray which was designed to attract men, and render then open to questioning. Indeed, many U.N.C.L.E. agents had succumbed to it in the past. Eventually, one agent was able to get hold of the formula and a new version had been designed. This time it would attract women.

Napoleon almost laughed aloud at the thought. Attracting women was something he had never had a problem with. In fact, he had quite the backlog in his social diary, of women he had agreed to take out on a date. As he listened to the scientists drone on about the properties of the new formula, Solo absentmindedly sprayed some, to see if it had a scent; it didn't.

"Thank you, gentleman," he suddenly blurted, unwilling to listen to anymore. "I've sure this development is going to be extremely useful."

Napoleon headed back to his office, with the intention of inviting Illya out to lunch. As he made his way through the corridors he soon noticed that he was gaining a following. Every woman he'd passed had dropped what they were doing in order to go wherever Napoleon went.

"Uh, hi ladies," he turned, and greeted them. "Is there something I can do for you?"

"Whatever you want," one replied.

"What can I do for _you_," said another.

"I'm kinda busy right now," Napoleon told them. "Maybe we can all get together later."

Continuing on his journey, he was acutely aware that the women were sticking with him. As he travelled, more of them joined the throng. Reaching the door of his office, he heard one of them tell another that he was hers. This was greeted by a chorus of denial from all the others. Without warning, Napoleon was grabbed by Susie from accounts, only to be pulled away from her by Janine from communications.

Almost immediately, all the women made a grab for him and starting tearing his clothes. He didn't notice when his office door opened, and Illya reached out. The Russian dragged the American in and locked the door.

"What was that about?" he asked.

"I suspect it has something to do with a new pheromone spray R&amp;D have come up with," Solo explained. "It seems to be a little too potent."

"And here was I thinking you enjoyed the attention of the ladies," Illya said, with a barely supressed smile.

"I do, but one at a time," Napoleon protested. "Possibly even two. Even I can't manage that many. I need a shower, and a fresh change of clothes."

He picked up the phone to tell Waverly of the situation. He Old Man cleared the corridors of female staff to allow Napoleon to get to the locker room. Before he left the office, napoleon held up the remnants of his tattered jacket.

"The cost of replacing this will be come straight out of the R&amp;D budget."


	90. Giving Chase

The two figures ran in silence through the snow-laden landscape; both intent on capturing their quarry before he got too far. After almost twenty-five minutes they came to a stop, desperately trying to draw breath into their burning lungs. Both were finding the ice difficult to run on and were tiring much more quickly than they would, had it not been the dead of winter.

"We've lost him already!" exclaimed Lester Harmon, gesturing out into the snow covered woodland; once he had recovered enough.

"I suppose he is one of the best U.N.C.L.E. has to offer," replied Peggy Weaver, gasping hard. "It's hardly surprising."

"That won't save our skins," Harmon countered. "If we don't get him, or the package he has, it'll be our fault regardless of how good he is."

"What do you think we should do?"

Harmon stared off into the white landscape and thought. The prospect of not recovering the package didn't bear thinking about. Their immediate futures could both depended on securing the item. If they could capture the man who had it, so much the better, but that was a secondary consideration.

"Kuryakin is Russian and is no doubt used to this kind of terrain. I reckon he will have gone into the trees."

"Okay, Harmon, You go left and I'll go right."

The two of them broke into a run once again but, just before they split off into the woods, Illya reappeared on the road.

"I'll follow him," Harmon called, to Weaver. "You go into the woods. He may have dumped the package."

Peggy made her way to where Kuryakin had emerged, hoping to back trace his footprints. However, after only five minutes, his trail had completely disappeared. She now found herself with a quandary. Should she continue searching for the package, without knowing what Kuryakin's route had been, or should she follow Harmon?

Her dilemma was solved for her when a figure dropped from tree and landed beside her.

"Sorry, my dear," Napoleon Solo apologised smoothly. "But you've been caught."

Sighing, Peggy handed over her weapon.

…

Down the road, Harmon was gaining on Kuryakin, though it seemed to him that the Russian wasn't exactly running as fast as he could. It was almost as if he were taunting him. Pulling out his gun, he shouted for the man to stop, and warned that he would shoot if he didn't.

Illya obeyed immediately and stood motionless until Harmon got closer. Without any warning whatsoever, he span around and shot his pursuer with a dart.

…

Harmon groaned as he opened his eyes. The bright light above caused his head to pound.

"We failed," he lamented.

"You did," Solo agreed. "But don't beat yourselves up about it."

The younger man slowly sat up and found Peggy looking at him with a look of resignation.

"You still have a long way to go," Illya told them. "But I would say your training is progressing well."

"Agreed," added Jules Cutter from the corner of the room. "You both got caught, but given how much this supposed 'top team' get captured, you're in good company."

He glared at Solo and Kuryakin, defying them to deny the fact.

"You realised that Kuryakin may have dropped the package to retrieve later," Cutter continued. "But, to be fair, he had no chance of tracking his movements."

"How did your footprints disappear?" Peggy asked Illya. She'd heard he could move stealthily, but everyone left tracks in the snow.

"I traversed trough the canopy," he explained. "It is not easy when the branches are slippery, but you must use every weapon in your arsenal."

"As for you, Harmon," Cutter went on. "You really shouldn't have let Kuryakin get the drop on you."

"I shouldn't have warned him," Harmon realised. "I should have just darted him."

"Exactly! Okay, you can both go and get some dinner."

Once the two trainees had left, Solo asked Cutter for his thoughts.

"There's still a lot for them to learn and, believe me they'll learn it, but they're both smart. I reckon it won't be long before they're better than the two of you."

The agents ignored the barb, knowing it was just Cutter's way. It was time for them to get back to New York; after Illya had had dinner, of course.


	91. Shooting Through the Red Tape

Illya Kuryakin could speak five languages and understand another four. He was conversant with the works of many of the world's greatest writers, poets, and philosophers. Chemistry was something he could understand and utilise, especially where it came to explosives, and he was well up on the basics of quantum mechanics. He was even beginning to get a grasp on all the ridiculous idioms which Napoleon liked to annoy him with. What Illya was having difficulty with, however, were the new security arrangements for the U.N.C.L.E. armoury.

Glancing at Napoleon, and then at Mr Waverly, he could see they were just as confused as he was. Barnaby Higgs, the chief armourer, didn't appear to notice that he'd lost his audience, and continued to drone on about his system. The Old Man allowed him to go on for a further ten minutes before asking him to stop.

"What was wrong with the old system?" Solo asked. "All we had to do was say what we needed and then sign for it."

"That was the problem," Higgs explained. "We couldn't be certain the name matched the person taking the equipment."

"Are you seriously suggesting that my agents would claim to be someone else?"

Illya almost stated that claiming to be someone else was often a large part of their job, but managed to catch himself.

"It has been known, Sir," Higgs replied, shooting a look at Solo. "Agents have to account for everything and some trigger-happy agents occasionally attempt to hide just how much ammo they're getting through."

Illya raised a quizzical eyebrow at his partner. He'd spent a good twenty minutes arguing with Higgs over his ammunition usage only last month.

"I can see the need for change, Mr Higgs," Waverly interjected. "But, don't you think your new idea is maybe a touch convoluted."

"No Sir. Let me explain it again."

"Succinctly," Illya said, in a tone which sent a chill through Higgs.

"It's simple," Higgs began. "Firstly, an agent will sign into the armoury using the new signing in sheets, and then requests a requisition form. We are making these orange for ease of identification. He, or indeed she, fills in the form by stating what they require, the amount of each item and the reason for the requisition. They also ensure that their name is written clearly and the date and time are entered correctly. Upon receipt of each item, the agent will initial against said item on their requisition form, as well as signing a goods received form. Once the required items have been handed over, the agent will sign a final acknowledgement that they have what they came for. They will then sign out of the armoury."

"There are times when agents need to get to places quickly with extra armaments," Waverly informed him. "Having them waiting in line and filling out excessive forms will be counter-productive. Surely there is a more useable solution. Is there no way you can simplify it all?"

"Why not just install a badge scanner," suggested Illya. "The armourer enters what the agent wants into the computer system, and then the agent scans his or her badge."

"Will that work?" Waverly asked Higgs.

"Yes," the man replied, failing to hide his annoyance at Illya's idea. "I'll get to work on it immediately."

"Thank you, Mr Kuryakin," Mr Waverly said, after Higgs left the office. "I'm certain he just wants to prevent anyone from getting hold of his precious stock. Now, let's get to some real work."


	92. Personnel Problems

Neither Illya nor Napoleon could quite believe the idea which was being proposed by Charles Foster and Kalino Kahala. Kuryakin's patience had already been tested the day before, by the ridiculous weapons requisition ideas from Barnaby Higgs*. Now they were stuck with what Napoleon would no doubt call 'a hare-brained scheme'. The self-satisfied expression on Foster's face had him wishing for an emergency which would require him to leave.

Foster and Kahala were the numbers 1 and 2 for Section 6; Security and Personnel. They had gone to Mr Waverly with an idea they felt sure would be beneficial to all U.N.C.L.E. staff. The old man thought it to be entirely unworkable but, before he rejected it, he had thought it could be interesting to get the opinions of his top enforcement team.

Solo stared, with incredulity, at Kahala for quite a long time.

"Are you suggesting some kind of job swap?" he asked, eventually.

"Not a swap exactly, Kahala explained. "We can hardly expect members of the secretarial pool to perform your duties."

"So you are suggesting agents from Sections 2 and 3 take on the work of other departments," Illya stated, doing little to disguise his dislike of the thought.

"You don't seem to understand what we're saying," Foster cut in, earning him a glacial glare from the Russian. "We are merely suggesting that agents occasionally help out in other departments. Many of them don't seem to know what is done by the staff of this organisation which allows them to do their own jobs effectively."

Ignoring the looks he was receiving form Solo and Kuryakin, Kahala continued on from Foster. He explained that quite a few complaints had been received, from various personnel, about the arrogance and brusqueness of several agents. After a long discussion it was decided that the agents should learn just what goes on behind the scenes.

"Have we been infiltrated by THRUSH," queried Illya.

"What do you mean by that, Mr Kuryakin?" Waverly asked him.

"I think I know what Illya is saying, Sir," Napoleon spoke up. "This is the second suggestion we've had, in the space of two days, which will take agents away from their duties."

"Precisely," Illya confirmed. "If I were a suspicious man, which I most certainly am, I could easily believe that someone was trying to prevent our agents from doing what they should be doing."

"How dare you!" Kahala yelled, jumping to his feet. "How dare you suggest either of us could be THRUSH."

He stormed around the table and stood as close as he could to Illya; who didn't flinch in the face of the man's ire.

"I was simply postulating a notion," Kuryakin said quietly. "Though I do find your reaction to it to be somewhat interesting."

"Sit down, Kalino," Napoleon requested, softly but firmly. "You too, Charles."

He waited until the two men had settled before he went on.

"No-one here is suggesting you are in collusion with THRUSH," he told them. "But please realise that agents simply do not have the time to take part in this scheme. When they aren't on active duty, they are writing reports or researching for future missions. As for the 'arrogance and brusqueness' there isn't much we can do about that. As CEA, I will have a word with them all, but you must remember that agents tend to be tightly wound."

Waverly, who had kept silent throughout, harrumphed his intention to bring the meeting to an end.

"Mr Kahala, Mr Foster, I accept and understand your concerns, but I feel that agents have no need to know every aspect of the running of the organisation. They have enough to worry about. All they need to know is that whenever they require something for an assignment, the people 'behind the scenes' will make sure it is ready for them. Please don't let me keep you gentlemen."

"What is going on, Sir?" Solo asked once the other two had gone.

"I truly wish I knew, Mr Solo," Waverly sighed. "I truly wish I knew"


	93. A Bitter Pill

Illya Kuryakin was well into the alley before he realised it lead to a dead end. To make it worse, every door he tried was locked. He had been attempting to shake off his pursuers for the best part of twenty minutes, but unfortunately, racing through crowded city streets slowed him down and allowed the Thrush men to gain on him. Reaching the end of the alley, Illya found himself facing and insurmountable wall.

The information he was transporting to headquarters could threaten the lives of quarter of the planet if it was allowed to fall into the wrong hands. He'd managed to bring it all the way through Europe without incident, but noticed he'd picked up a tail as he'd arrived in New York. Illya had tried many ways to evade the two men, such as cutting through stores and switching cabs, but they'd stuck with him. He had managed to get a message to HQ, so he knew he had back-up on the way. He also knew they wouldn't get to him on time. Illya would have to do what he'd been hoping to avoid.

The information had been placed on a micro-dot, which itself was put into a small metal capsule. It wasn't much bigger than an aspirin and had been designed to survive a journey through the human digestive system. Illya extracted the capsule from a pill box in his pocket and swallowed it just as the Thrush men reached him. They both had their guns trained on him.

"Spit it out, Kuryakin," the taller one ordered.

"I have swallowed it."

"Not to worry," the shorter Thrushie commented. "I have no qualms about cutting it from you."

"I would hold off on that," came the voice of U.N.C.L.E. agent, William Jacobs, from behind him.

The feel of gun barrels pressing into the backs of their heads had the two men dropping their weapons and raising their hands.

"Is everything okay?" asked Jacobs' partner, Sophia Metcalfe, as she cuffed the two men.

"Never better," Illya replied, with a half-smile. "I would have preferred you to have arrived thirty seconds earlier, however."

…..

"You have two choices," Nurse Maisie Redfearn explained to Illya. "We can pump your stomach, or we can give you something to induce vomiting."

She held up a glass containing a viscous yellow liquid.

"Could we not simply await nature's course?" the Russian asked, not liking either of the options he'd been presented with. "The capsule was designed with that in mind."

"No can do, Tovarisch," Napoleon told him. "We need that information as soon as possible."

"Very well," Illya conceded. "As much as I find it distasteful, I believe I would prefer to vomit."

Nurse Redfearn handed him the liquid and watched as he swallowed it down. She them handed him a bowl.

"It will take about two minutes to take effect," she explained. "And, because I know you like your privacy in such things, I will leave you with your partner."

The next five minutes were misery personified for Illya. Plus, if throwing up wasn't bad enough, he then had to root through everything he had expelled in search of the capsule. He rinsed it off in his water glass before handing it to Napoleon.

"Next time," he said, hoarsely. "Thrush can have it."


	94. Friends in the Right Places

Illya Kuryakin sat alone in the interrogation room, with his hands cuffed behind him, and bided his time. His best option for the moment was to wait and not antagonise the situation. Everything he'd been carrying, including a microfilm, had been confiscated and, although Illya had some equipment in his heel, he'd decided against using it. The door to the room slammed open and a large, sweaty man entered. He was dressed entirely in brown, right down to his socks and tie. He sat down opposite his prisoner and began looking through the file he'd brought in.

"My name is Detective Littleton," he stated, without looking at Illya. "I take it you've had your phone call."

"Yes, thank you," Illya replied. "I have assistance on the way."

"Good, because you'll be needing the best lawyer you can get."

"I will not require a lawyer."

Littleton finally looked up at the man in front of him. Illya could see the anger in his eyes, and his breathing suggested he was only just keeping himself in check. The detective was obviously not happy at being handed this particular case.

"Just so there's no confusion, I do not like Russians," he snarled. "I especially don't like Russians who are walking around my city carrying guns, fake identification, and what looks like some sort of microfilm. What I really hate are Russian spies."

"I am an agent of the United Network Command for Law and Enforcement," Illya explained calmly.

"Yeah, right! Do you expect me to believe that ID card to be genuine?"

"You can believe what you wish," Kuryakin told him, keeping his tone level. "It will not change the truth."

"Look, I've got better things to do than deal with little Soviet runts. I should be seeing my boy in his school play, and because I'm not there I'll get a load of grief from my old lady. I've already worked a fourteen hour shift, thanks to Conti calling sick and now I have a damned russkie to deal with.

Without any warning, Littleton rose to his feet, hauled Russian over the table by his shirt, and slammed him against the wall. Illya bit back a cry as he felt one of the bones in his left arm break. The detective leaned close in to his face.

"If I had my way, I'd throw you back to Russia here and now," he growled, causing Illya to gag against his onion smelling breath. "Unfortunately, all I can do for now is charge you with carrying a concealed weapon. Don't worry though; I'm sure I can come up with something else with very little effort."

"Littleton!"

The detective let go of the prisoner and turned to face the owner of the voice; Capt. Braxton. Behind the captain, he could see Commissioner Taylor and an elderly looking gentleman.

"You appear to be assaulting a member of the U.N.C.L.E.," the Commissioner said, doing very little to hide his ire. "From what I understand, Mr Kuryakin had ID with him. Would you care to explain what is going on?"

"I . . . I . . . thought."

"You did not think," Braxton roared. The more quietly said, "Why did you not check the ID before coming in here. Get those cuffs off him."

Littleton obeyed immediately and as he released the cuffs Illya hissed out in pain.

"Are you hurt, Mr Kuryakin?" the Commissioner asked.

"I felt my arm break," Illya admitted.

Upon hearing that one of his agents had been unnecessarily injured, Alexander Waverly let loose his wrath. He demanded charges be brought against the detective and made it clear that he expected the heaviest possible penalties to be handed to him.

"If you are ready, Mr Kuryakin, let's get you to a doctor."

After Illya had collected his belongings he and Mr Waverly headed back to headquarters. The injured man cradled his hurting arm.

"I do not want the detective charged, Sir," he said quietly, swallowing back the pain.

"He attacked you without provocation, young man."

"I know, but I can understand his motivations," Illya explained.

The man was a low level bigot and had clearly been having a bad day.

"Very well," Waverly agreed. "If you are sure."

Kuryakin nodded. He had enough enemies without having members of the NYPD gunning for him.


	95. It Has its Uses

"Lord Peregrine Whittaker, of Oxford, England has passed away," Mr Waverly told his top two agents. "As such, his title and fortune passes to his eldest son, Gerard."

"Forgive me, Sir, but how is that of interest to us?"

"If you wait, Mr Solo, I shall enlighten you."

Napoleon could almost feel the grin Illya was suppressing in response to his chastisement.

"The new Lord Whittaker was last known to be living in New York, among the jazz fraternity," Waverly continued. "The late Lord Whittaker was a friend the state governor, who has asked us to trace the young man. While this may not be in our remit, it does no harm to foster good relations."

"How will we recognise him if we do find him?" asked Illya.

Waverly pushed a photograph across the tale of the last photo of Gerard Whittaker before he'd dropped out of university. He looked like the average upper-crust English heir.

"It is believed that he is going by the name . . .," he looked down at the file in search of the name. "Swing Cat. You are to locate young Lord Whittaker and inform him of events. Everything you need to know is in this file."

The agents stood and Napoleon picked up the file. Just before they left, Waverly called Illya back.

"If you should pass a barber, Mr Kuryakin, I will not mind if you take the time to get your hair cut. It's beginning to become a little too long once again."

"Yes Sir,"

It was Napoleon's turn to hide his amusement.

A few hours later, Solo and Kuryakin finally managed to find a trail. No-one seemed to want to talk to them. It wasn't until Napoleon had to answer a call of nature as they entered a club, leaving Illya on his own momentarily, that they had their first sniff of a lead. As Solo was returning from the bathroom he noticed Illya give him their signal for 'you don't know me'. He changed course and went to wait in the car. It wasn't long before his partner joined him.

"Success?" he asked, as Illya got in to the car.

"Partial," the other man replied. "I know which club Swing Cat prefers to frequent. I also know why we've had no luck until now."

"Do tell,"

"Apparently, you are a 'Fed'," Illya told him. "You look too much like the authorities."

"And you blend right in," Napoleon stated, understanding Illya's meaning.

Armed with the information they needed, Illya found their quarry without any trouble. When he told the young man of his father's death, he reacted in a way Illya wasn't expecting. Given that father and son had apparently hated each other, no-one could have predicted just how distraught Gerard Whittaker would be. At first, Illya thought it was simply because he didn't want to be a part of the nobility. As it turned out, Gerard had wanted to make amends with his father, but assumed he'd be rejected.

It wasn't long before the new Lord Whittaker found himself on a plane; heading back to a very different life. Napoleon and Illya reported back to Waverly.

"I apologise, Sir," said Illya, after the debriefing was through. "I haven't had a chance to have my hair cut yet."

"Not to worry, my boy," Waverly replied, turning away to indicate the meeting was over. "Whenever is convenient. Though I can't deny it was useful to you today."


	96. Just Hanging Around

The floor was 20ft down from Illya's enforced position. After waking up a day ago, in the cramped cage which was hanging from the ceiling, he'd had plenty of time to work out the height. He also knew that there were exactly 2374 tiles, laid out in a black and gold diamond pattern. The colour choice had intrigued him at first, but then he'd taken in the rest of the room. Peeling gold columns, and tattered brocade curtains, which were also gold, suggested a long forgotten ballroom.

Illya had no idea how he'd arrived in his current position. The last thing he remembered was arriving home to his apartment following a long day at the office. He had no real indication of how long ago that had been. All Illya knew for certain, was that he was in a cage only just big enough for him to sit in. All six sides were comprised of bars, making it extra uncomfortable, and the lock appeared to be hidden. Furthermore, he had been divested of his clothes and equipment and dressed in blue coveralls. This detail led him to believe he was in the company of Thrush.

Illya had attempted to find a way out of his predicament, but had been unable to. Even if he had been able get out of the cage, he couldn't go anywhere. The cage was hanging from the centre of the room, where a chandelier would normally be. His only option had been to wait. And wait. Finally, after many hours of trying to ignore his insistent bladder, some people entered the ballroom.

There were six in total, and Illya recognised them all from previous meetings. Each one of them had been bested by the Russian in the past and it was obvious they want to exact their revenge. Not a word was said between the six as they each drew their weapons and aimed their enemy.

Illya's heart froze in his chest as he realised that he was about to die. It wasn't the first time, he thought death as imminent, but somehow this felt like the last time. He'd been taken from outside his apartment so, even if his disappearance was known, his whereabouts probably weren't. He could only hope the tracker in his confiscated communicator was still working.

Refusing to give his captors the satisfaction of knowing he was scared, Illya glared down at them in defiance. However, before any of them could fire, they all fell to the floor, one by one. Seconds later, Napoleon, Mark, and April entered.

"I'll find the mechanism to lower him down," Mark said, as he headed off to the other end of the room.

"Are you alright, darling?" April called up to him.

"Other than a need to visit the bathroom, I am well," Illya replied. "I have also missed several meals."

"Don't worry, Tovarisch," Napoleon told him. "I'm sure we can rustle something up."

Within minutes, Illya had been released from the cage, and had found a place to relieve himself. Mark and April took charge of organising transport for the sleeping birdies, while Napoleon took Illya for some much needed food.

"Sorry we kept you hanging around," said Solo, as they got into the car.

Illya didn't reply to the terrible joke. Instead he decided to get his revenge by ordering the most expensive thing he could.


	97. Happy Ever After

Napoleon glanced at his watch and thought about how the evening should have gone. He would have been ordering dessert around now but, instead, he'd had to postpone his date. The whole evening had been planned to perfection, and the lady he'd picked to join him had been ecstatic at getting a Valentine's date with him.

The women of U.N.C.L.E. were under no delusion about dating Napoleon Solo. To be his date was a guarantee of good food, great conversation, and plenty of dancing. If you wanted more, he was happy to oblige, if you didn't, he behaved like the gentleman he was. Solo was a classic fly-by-night but, for the few hours you were with him, you were the most important woman on Earth. For all they were modern, emancipated women, the chance to spend an evening with him was one to be jumped at. The chance to be Napoleon Solo's Valentine's date was the prize they all wanted. You didn't get love from him, but you did get attention.

The restaurant had been booked two months ago, long before Napoleon knew whether he'd even be free that evening, let alone who his date would be. He'd arranged for a dozen red roses to be presented to the lady upon arrival and had requested the best champagne to be put on ice. All of that preparation had come to nothing, but Napoleon didn't begrudge it at all. Given the choice between a sumptuous dinner with a beautiful woman, and sitting by his injured partner's bedside, Illya would win out every time.

"Why are you still here?" the wounded man gasped, pulling Napoleon from his thoughts, "I thought you had a date with Belinda."

"Melinda," Solo corrected. "And I'm here because I'm always here when you're hurt. The same as you are when the situation is reversed. How do you feel?"

"Like I was hit by a car," Illya replied, smiling at his attempt at humour.

He had indeed been hit by a car that morning. The agent had been chasing a Thrush courier, through the busy streets of the city, on foot. With his eyes on the quarry, the normally observant Kuryakin had darted across the street without looking.

"I am hurting," he clarified, "But you know I will be fine. You did not need to postpone your date."

"Melinda didn't mind," Napoleon assured him. "Plus, I had to postpone before I knew you were going to be fine."

"But, isn't Valentine's Day a high holiday in the Solo calendar?" Illya asked. "Surely your powers of seduction are at their maximum on this day. I thought the woman picked for this particular day was always a special one."

"They're all special," the American replied. "As for it being Valentine's Day, it doesn't really mean anything to me personally. If the day should come that I meet 'the one' then it may take on meaning."

"Do you think you ever will meet the woman who could get the great Napoleon Solo to settle down?"

"Never say never, Tovarisch. Though, in our line of work it doesn't pay to think about 'happy ever after'."

"This is true," Illya agreed. "Although . . ."

"Although what?" Solo prompted, after a few seconds of silence.

"I would like to marry one day," the Russian said, eventually.

"Is this the pain relief talking?" Napoleon asked in mock shock.

Illya shot him an icy look before a soft, half-smile appeared on his lips.

"It may be the pain relief, but I truly do dream of a day when I have a wife and children. Family is everything to a Russian and, as I am the last of my line, it would be heartening to know that my name will live on. But of course, a dream is all it is. As you say, it does not pay to imagine 'happy ever after'."

….

TEN YEARS LATER

"Ready, Tovarisch?"

"Da," the other man replied, as he and Napoleon stood.

They both turned as the bride entered and a broad smile spread across Illya's face. As the love of his life walked towards him, he thought back to a conversation a decade earlier.

"Maybe happy ever after is possible after all," he said to his friend.

"No arguments there," Napoleon replied, as he looked over to his own wife.


	98. Unwedded Bliss

(**Prompt - In the Concrete Overcoat Affair, What if Pia and Napoleon had actually gotten married**?)

Napoleon attracted the attention of the barman and ordered his second whiskey.

"You don't seem to be yourself today, Mr Solo," Lenny commented, as he poured the drink. "Wanna talk about it?"

"Thanks, Lenny," Napoleon replied, as he accepted the glass. "But talking isn't going to sort this problem out."

The barman offered a sympathetic smile and left him to his own thoughts. Like all good bar workers the world over, Lenny was the sole of discretion. Napoleon looked at his watch a split second before the door opened. The man he was meeting was exactly on time.

"May I get you drink, Signor Stiletto?" he asked, as the man took the seat beside him.

Arturo Stiletto, better known as 'Fingers' to his friends and enemies, accepted the offer and waited until he received it before he said anything further.

"I'm pleased you agreed to meet me,"

"Can't say no to family," Napoleon replied unhappily.

"Indeed, and that is why I am here, fella."

"I thought Pia might come."

"She can't bear to see you," Stiletto told him. My niece likes you, but she doesn't love you, and she doesn't want to tie you down. The child believes it would be easier for all concerned if you didn't see each other just yet."

"That's all very well, Signor, but we are married. That isn't something we can ignore."

"Well, yeah," the Italian said, hesitantly. "Maybe we were a little hasty in forcing you both into wedlock."

"I was found I her room," Napoleon replied. "You were simply trying to protect her honour."

"I know two things, Solo. Pia is a good girl and you are a good man. Pia has sworn to God that nothing went on and we believe her. Also, from what I have learned in your company, you are a man of honour. Therefore, I also take you at your word."

Napoleon drained his drink and called for another.

"Pia is a sweet girl," he stated. "But marriage isn't for me and I simply don't love her. My actions have trapped her and she deserves more than I can give her, but what can we do? Divorce wouldn't harm my reputation but it could hurt Pia."

"Annulment," Fingers stated bluntly.

"Of course, why didn't I think of that?"

It was such a simple solution for all concerned. Being married had made Napoleon face the prospect of early retirement from field duty. He wasn't ready for that, but Waverly had said there would be no other option, unless Solo could find a way out of his predicament. Napoleon had thought of divorce, but hadn't wanted to damage Pia's reputation any more than he already had done. Besides, he figured the Stiletto brothers wouldn't have taken too kindly to the suggestion.

"Forgive me for saying, Signor, but I wouldn't have imagined you would be so accommodating over this situation. Especially given how keen you were for the wedding to happen quickly."

Stiletto laughed heartily and slapped Napoleon on the back.

"I like you Solo, but I don't really want you in my family," he said. "Pia assures me that your relationship remains unconsummated, so an annulment should be easy to arrange."

"I'd like to see her again."

"Come to the restaurant opening," Stiletto invited. "Bring your partner and your boss."

"Thank you, Signor. I will."

Fingers left the bar, leaving Napoleon feeling much lighter than he had.

"Another one, Mr Solo?" asked the barman.

"No thanks, Lenny," Napoleon replied, paying for what he'd had and adding a generous tip. "Life has suddenly improved."


	99. Not Like the Movies

The assignment had gone without a hitch, right up to the point of escape. A couple of Thrushies had taken umbrage at the two U.N.C.L.E. agents making off with the plans for a new weapon, and had opened fire as they sped away. Several bullets struck the car but, luckily, it seemed as though they'd gotten away relatively unscathed.

However, less than a mile down the road, the car began to slow down. A glance to the fuel gauge told Illya that they were running on empty.

"The gas tank must have been ruptured," he told Napoleon. "We'll have to abandon the car and find another mode of transport. If I remember the map correctly, there should be a railway station two miles along this road."

"How come we didn't blow up?" Solo asked, as he got out of the vehicle. "There's always a massive explosion when a car gets hit by a bullet in the movies."

Illya gave Napoleon a look of pure incredulity, and just about managed to keep himself from sighing.

"This is real life, Napoleon," he replied. "While there is an infinitesimal chance of that happening, the odds against it are astronomical."

Solo appeared to be almost crestfallen at hearing that.

"Would you prefer that the vehicle had exploded? Bearing in mind that we would have gone with it?"

Solo shrugged, not wishing to admit that it was the shattering of a Hollywood illusion which had upset him.

"Come on," he urged his partner. "We need to get on a train before the bad guys realise we haven't gone very far."

The two men continued their journey on foot, and in silence. They'd only gone a short distance when their abandoned vehicle unexpectedly erupted into a large fireball, accompanied by a loud 'whoomph!'. The resultant shockwave knocked the agents to the ground.

Covering their heads, Napoleon and Illya rolled away from the falling debris which was almost all that was left of their red Dodge Charger. When the dust finally settled, they sat up and watched as the rest burned.

"That should not have happened," Illya stated. "That could not have happened."

"How do you explain it then?"

"As I said, the odds of it were astronomical," the Russian replied. "But, if by some miracle, we were unlucky enough for it to happen to us, it would have been immediate. It has been many minutes since the car was hit."

"In that case, we have a problem," said Napoleon, solemnly.

"What is that?"

"If this is impossible to explain, how are you going to put it to Mr Waverly?"

"As senior agent, that is a problem for you to solve," Illya told him, before climbing to his feet and walking away from the wreckage.


	100. Blue Blood

As he staggered along the early morning streets of New York City, Illya desperately tried to cling on to the information he had in his head. He knew it was important, but he was beginning to forget why. He could vaguely recall it had something to do with a new threat, and he knew he had to get it to HQ at all costs.

Illya had been sent undercover to discover if Thrush had formulated an antidote for a particularly nasty nerve agent they had developed. Two Section 2 agents were already laid in medical suffering from the effects of whatever it was Thrush had given them. They had started out feeling quite dizzy, before they slowly began to lose control of their muscles. They also lost the ability to think or articulate, but managed to convey that they were in considerable pain. U.N.C.L.E.'s medics were at a loss as to how to treat them.

It had taken Illya less than a day to learn what they need to cure the two men. Unfortunately, before he could open a channel to relay the information, he was taken captive and his communicator broken in half. He managed to escape relatively quickly, but not before he was injected with the nerve agent.

Knowing he didn't have much time, Illya sped away from the Thrush compound and, once he could be sure he wasn't being followed, he began to search for a telephone. Parking the car, he staggered his way along street. Finally, Illya found what he was searching for.

Every agent knew the direct telephone number which would bypass security lines. While fighting a wave of dizziness, it took Illya a few seconds to bring the number to mind. Once he got through he requested to be put through to Napoleon. By the time his partner answered, Illya was on his knees, barely able to keep hold of the receiver.

"Where are you, Illya?" Napoleon asked. "Did you get what you went for?"

"Y. . . yes," Kuryakin stuttered. "It is . . . erm . . . I can't remember."

"Tovarisch? What's wrong?"

Napoleon instructed the nearest person to him to trace the call, and send a medic as soon as they had Illya's location.

"B . . . b . . . blue blood," Illya gasped, as he fell fully to the ground.

…..

He awoke in the familiar surroundings of the medical suite and found his dozing in his customary chair, with his feet up on the bed.

"Napoleon?" he called, pushing the man's legs down.

Solo jerked awake before breaking in to a grin.

"Hey there," he greeted. "How are you feeling?"

"Tired, but quite well," Illya told him. "I take it I got the information back here."

"More or less," Napoleon replied. "You telephoned and left us the words 'blue blood'. We spent quite a long time trying to work out what royalty had to do with nerve-agents."

"Royalty?" Illya queried. "I meant . . ."

"The Horseshoe Crab," Napoleon finished. "Someone made an off-hand comment that they had blue blood. Once it was apparent that this was what you meant, an antidote was very quickly manufactured."

"How are McKenzie and Mortimer?"

"Completely recovered, thanks to you. Just one thing though, Illya."

"Yes."

"I know you love a cryptic word puzzle, but could you choose a more appropriate moment next time?"

Illya refused to rise to the bait, settling instead for his patented icy glare. Immune to the tactic, Napoleon merely laughed.


End file.
